Our Story
by reagancrew
Summary: These were all posted on tumblr originally, but I've been asked to post them here as well. 30 moments of a lifetime, of a love that transcends time, transcends space. Bering and Wells. Not necessary to read in order, but it might make more sense if you do. Disclaimer: I don't own B&W or Warehouse 13, etc. etc.
1. Glorious

**Glorious**

**Warehouse 13, Bering and Wells - This is the 30 day challenge from over on Tumblr. I've been asked to post it here for ease of reading now that it's finished. Enjoy! **

**Day 1 - Holding Hands**

"Do you think it will ever end?" you ask, breaking the stillness that lays over the both of you like a blanket.

She doesn't answer, merely looks at you, her head cocked to the side in question.

"This," and you wave your hand in the air to indicate...everything.

She glances around. You are sitting the lobby of a hotel, waiting for Pete to join you. It is five in the morning, and all of the normal people are still sleeping. The sun is rising, and the muted oranges of a new day are filtering into the deserted lobby, making her skin glow. You have successfully snagged, bagged, and tagged another of the world's hidden dangers. It is time to catch a plane home. Home. South Dakota. No one has died, although once more you all escaped only by luck and some strange twist of fate. Except you don't believe in luck. You might, however, be coming around to the idea of fate. Especially when she is sitting beside you, looking ragged and sleep deprived and lovely.

You have not slept in 72 hours and your head feels a bit fuzzy and floaty. The way it does when you pick up your pen at three in the morning to attempt to transmit your thoughts onto paper. The way it does when she smiles at you.

She bites her bottom lip in thought. She is actually considering your question. It's strange to think that she might care what you say. It's nice. It makes your heart beat just a little bit faster. The way it does when you catch her looking at you in the office of the Warehouse. Or when your eyes find her immediately when you enter the room, latching onto her as if of their own volition. She is the first one you look for. Always.

"No," and her response comes out in a whoosh of air. "I don't think so," she looks apologetic. But you nod and look down at the floor to let her know that it's alright; you were expecting that answer. You study the patterns of the red and greens on the faded carpeting and try not to notice the prickling behind your eyes. It's ridiculous to feel so emotional about such a silly question. You don't want her to see.

"But," she pauses. You look up at her quickly. She is staring at you, studying you. And then she shifts her green eyed gaze out towards some unforeseeable future. "But, maybe. I don't know," she shrugs.

You feel your shoulders deflate in poorly concealed disappoint. She notices, because she turns toward you, glances around quickly. The only other person in the lobby is the one yawning behind the desk. Then she scoots closer to you on the couch. You force yourself not to lean closer. You force yourself not to look away from her face.

Now she is the one seemingly fascinated by the carpet. "Sometimes," she begins, her face a mask of concentration, "after weeks like this one, when I think that it can't possibly get any better, or any worse," she gives a strangled laugh, "I remember what Artie said once."

You look at her curiously, because Arthur Nielsen has never seemed like one for flowery phrases or quotable remarks. He is brusque and too the point and although he still doesn't trust you, you find yourself liking him immensely.

"Pete likes to quote him on it," she smiles, fondly this time. "Endless wonder," she said quietly. "We are living lives of endless wonder at the Warehouse. And it's true," she wants you to agree.

You turn the words over in your mind. Endless wonder. Yes. That is true. But, "Is it worth it?" you ask. And you are asking because of near-death experiences, men like Macpherson and Sykes, because of Egypt, Yellowstone, the Bronzer, Christina, because of Kelly, and Pete's ex-wife, and because of Sam, and Leena, and events that leave you always feeling just a step behind, always searching for solid footing.

She sighs at the question, her eyes darker, deeper, understanding. You are sitting closer together. You do not remember moving towards her. You are asking because she is the person who understands you better than anyone else in all the world, and yet she is also the furthest away and you, in all your infinite wisdom, are unsure how to bridge that distance. "I think so," she whispers. "I hope so, because," she breaks off once more.

You are waiting for her words with bated breath, waiting for her to save you, talk you down off this ledge you have carried the both of you to like she has done so many times in the past. Her lips are in a thin line, however. She looks down to the sofa. There is a three centimeter gap between your fingers. It feels like three centuries. Time and space are difficult to decipher when it comes to her.

She takes a deep breath, an affirming one. You see her back straighten. Her face adopts that look she wears when she's stopped thinking, and decided to act. Determined. But vulnerable. And she reaches out and intwines your fingers. Her palm is soft beneath your own, with none of the calluses that come from many hours spent tinkering with Claudia. Her hand is long and thin and delicate, but her grip is strong. You are not able to contain your gasp, because although you have held her to you while you both flew above an advancing vehicle. Although she has forced a gun into your hand. Although you have been trapped in the coils of rigging rope from _Mary Celeste. _You have never held her hand this way, familiarly, gently.

You are afraid to hold too tightly. But she gives you a gentle smile. Her cheeks are flushed. You can feel your own burning as well. You are bereft of your normal cocky composure. You blame it on the loss of sleep.

"Endless wonder," she whispers. You feel yourself nod in agreement. "There are bad days," she is explaining, as if to herself. "But there are good days, too. And I have to hope that somehow, the scales are balancing themselves out." She looks down to your tightly clasped hands and gives a squeeze, as if in preparation for letting go. You find that you want nothing more than to be permitted to maintain contact. You feel grounded, less flighty this way. Your head is not as light. She doesn't let go though. No. Instead, she stares out towards the sliding glass doors where Pete has gone to retrieve the car. And you sit, holding hands, until the SUV appears in front of the hotel.

When she stands, you follow her, still connected, and only when you are both vertical do you feel your hand fall, empty, to your side. She turns to face you once more and gives you a soft smile. "Today feels like one of the good ones, Helena."

You open and close your hand, feeling the emptiness in your palm. For those moments, those few blessed moments, you knew what it would be like to be the person she looked for upon entering a room. Even if the moment has passed and Pete is only ten yards away, opening the trunk and looking anxiously in at both of you while you stand locked in place. Even if this fleeting moment of trust and understand never comes again, it has happened. And it was, "Glorious."

You smirk at her, because that is what she expects from HG Wells. And you turn to lead the way towards the car, preparing yourself for the long trip back to the Warehouse devoid of any physical contact. You are: traitor, inventor, author, time traveler, Warehouse agent, loyal, alone. And hopelessly in love with the way her hand fits inside your own. Today is one of the good ones, yes. But they are few and far between.


	2. Terrifying

**Terrifying**

**Bering and Wells - I should mention that this is the 30 day challenge my way. Well, technically Helena and Myka's way. **

**Day 2 - Cuddling**

"I win!" Claudia shouts, leaping enthusiastically over the couch and rushing the television. "_Serenity _it is." She gives a whoop of laughter.

"How come it's only ever Peter or Claudia who manage to win these things?" you ask the room at large, settling more firmly into your end of the sofa. Steve, seated on the beanbag chair he's appropriated from somewhere deep in the B&B's basement, merely shrugs. A man of few words. You approve. Claudia waggles her fingers teasingly at you over her shoulder as she fusses with the DVD player.

"We gots the skillz," Pete proclaims, entering the room with two large bowls of popcorn, one of which he hands to Steve before settling himself in the lazy chair.

"Sing it!" the youngest agent agrees.

"You cheat, you mean," she says, and you feel as if your heartbeat skips a few beats as she enters the room. It's quite annoying actually - your autonomic nervous system fritzing whenever she appears suddenly. It drives you a bit mad, and you're quite the expert on madness. You'd ask her to stop, if she was capable of doing so, and if you didn't enjoy it so much. She hands you a somewhat smaller bowl of popcorn, sans the butter that is practically dripping from Pete's and flops down on the couch beside you. You try not to tense up at the proximity of your bodies. You can smell her shampoo. Vanilla and honey.

It has been three weeks since she held your hand in a hotel lobby on a cool morning in Seattle, Washington. You have had seven successful missions since then, and Artie has given you all the day off in celebration. Also because Dr. Calder is in town... But none of you mention that tiny detail. You'd planned on spending the day catching up on some reading or tinkering out in the back shed, but Claudia had pleaded for a movie day at breakfast, and Pete had immediately agreed, pulling Steve right along with him. You might have been able to resist, until she'd turned to you, eyes shining and enthused, "It'll be fun, HG. Don't you think?"

"Yes," you'd barely managed to reply, because when she looked at you like that, her eyes the color of fern leaves in sunlight, you lost all normal capacity of human speech. "Sure," and a rousing cheer had gone up around the breakfast table.

You're not quite sure when it slipped from day to dusk and into night, but this is the fifth, maybe sixth film you've sat through, and you _are _certain that you cannot feel your legs and that you will most likely fall asleep during this next one. The human body is only made to undergo so much television in one day. And you think you may have hit your quota during the second hour. But, you haven't wanted to burst the bubble of excited relaxation that has descended upon the room at large, and so you sit, and watch, and try to make sense of the running commentary Pete and Claudia insist on keeping. And you try not to let your attention drift from the screen towards the figure sitting opposite you. She looks more at ease than you have seen her in what feels like decades. You try not to stare, not to trace the creamy expanse of her neck, not to ache for the feel of her palm against your own, not to reach out and tuck one errant curl behind her ear. You are failing miserably.

"Righty ho, troops! Batten down the hatches. And prepare to have your minds blown," Claudia plays. "In 3. 2. 1." She gives a serious nod to Pete who reaches up to switch out the light just as she presses play. The room is plunged into darkness as the electronic noise of a recorded symphony prefaces the film.

You settle back into your cushions and try not to notice as Myka does the same only a foot away. When she reaches out a blind hand for popcorn, you hold the bowl out for her. You glance around the room. Your friends' faces are tinged blue in the unnatural lighting. They are all staring expectantly at the screen. Claudia has seated herself next to Steve on a second bean bag chair. It's comfortable here with all of them. You feel at ease. At home. With a start, you recognize today as one of the good ones that Myka had mentioned weeks ago. One of the simple days that you'll try to remember forever but will never be able to completely recall. The feeling that will almost stay with you - the warmth, the security, the camaraderie of the afternoon - long after you forget the names of the films or the way your stomach feels, distended and full from too much popcorn. You close your eyes tightly, trying to trap the emotion of the room in your mind's eye, something for later, on a day that isn't so wonderful. You'll never be able to fully recall the sense of peace that such an afternoon and evening entail, but wisps of it will remain, and that's enough.

You are quite sure it cannot get any better than this. Not when you thought that you'd lost all chance at having friends, even, perhaps, a family again. You are so full you feel that there is no way to be more content. That is, until twenty minutes in, when you feel her shiver next to you. Involuntary perhaps, but you know it is because she's cold. She's brought her feet up in the space between you and is resting with one arm on the arm of the couch, the other reaching over for popcorn now and then. You set the bowl of popped kernels down gently on the floor at your feet and reach behind you to take the throw blanket off the back of the couch. You move slowly, quietly. You are not sure why it is that you feel the need to be so stealthy, but it is probably for the jolt of happiness that makes its way through you as you lay the blanket gingerly over her legs, and she glances up at you in surprise, appreciation clear on her shadowed features. You'd forgotten what it feels like to take pleasure in such a simple protective gesture. Once upon a time you'd been considered quite the chivalrous charmer. But it this is no act, and the way your stomach suddenly flip flops on itself is certainly no joke.

You look away quickly, hoping she doesn't notice the sudden blush that makes its away across your features. When did you become so out of practice? She turns you into some kind of bumbling fool. But, before you really understand, she's shifted once more, sitting up and scooting closer to you before laying the blanket over both of your laps. You try not to gasp at the sudden closeness, or to jump when she reaches under the blanket and finds your hand, clenched tightly in your lap. You unfurl your fingers at her silent insistence, and sigh as she clasps your hand in her own.

Several moments pass. You feel her start to relax beside you, giving you leave to do the same. But, just as you are getting comfortable once more, almost used to the sensation of being connected to her in such an intimate way, she surprises you again. She leans closer and you automatically tilt your head, shivering as her breath comes out warm and soft against your skin. "Is it alright if I-" she indicates the length of the couch.

You nod, because the power of speech is beyond you. Because she is utterly bewitching. Because you do not desire to resist the spell she so effortlessly casts. Before you quite know what is happening, she has stretched out, and is laying against you. Your body has turned of its own accord to better accommodate her. She is lying on her side, pillowed against your chest.

You hold your breath, trying not to dislodge this tenuous hold you have over reality. You are afraid to move, afraid to disrupt whatever might be happening. She isn't one for physical contact. Now and then she'll accept an enthusiastic hug from Claudia, or fall asleep against Pete in the backseat of the car on the way home after a long and trying day. But those times are few and far between. Otherwise, she holds herself a bit removed from everyone. Not like you. You're removed from them all for far different reasons. Aloof still, no matter how long it's been since you betrayed them. But her, they love her. All of them. They are completely devoted to her. It pains you to admit that you are no different. But, she doesn't seem to realize how protective they are of her, how easy it is for them to love her. She wears an air of detachment about her like a cloak, held over from years of being the odd one out. So, you hold your breath for fear of spooking her away.

She fits against you perfectly. Filling holes you'd tried to hide behind sarcastic remarks and cavalier, devil-may-care bravado. You feel more exposed with her so close than you would if you were completely naked. You resist the urge to pull away, as well as the desire to bury your face in her curls and hold her tighter to your chest. You can feel her heartbeat. It's terrifying.

She falls asleep that way, as though she's never felt safer. You wonder why she trusts you, still, after all this time. You wonder if she knows the secrets that you keep trapped inside, that you only release late at night behind closed doors when you're alone and the world feels so far away. You wonder what she would think if she knew that you dream of her, a woman with intelligent green eyes and a smile that's both delighted and shadowed.

You can't resist wrapping your arm around her shoulders. She is very nearly perfect. And when the movie has ended and the credits have rolled and the other three agents have stretched and bemoaned their sore muscles, all still in the darkness of the living room, she has not woken. Her chest rises and falls in a gentle rhythm. For not the first time, you think that perhaps this future you went through so much to see is not so terrible after all. And you are sure that you are in love.


	3. Lovely

**Lovely**

**Bering and Wells - Here ya go. Well, shit. **

**Day 3 - Date **

"Come on!" she urges, tugging at your wrist with her mittened hand.

"But _where _are we going?" you ask for the third time, frustrated because you don't know the plan.

"Just come _on, _Helena." Your name on her lips, even when it comes out tinged with exasperation, is wonderful. So you don't ask any more questions. Instead you focus on the hole she is burning through your jacket sleeve, through your skin, down to your bone. There are at least three layers of clothing between her hand and your arm, but you feel as if the heat of her touch is scarring you nonetheless. It is both painful and exhilarating.

"Here we are!" she exclaims, stopping so suddenly that your forward momentum almost carries you into her. She throws her arms out in joyous delight.

You study the building in front of you skeptically. "Richardson's Books?" It does not look promising. A tiny, run down shop on a backstreet of Boston.

"I found it last time Pete and I had an artifact retrieval here," she turns to look you at you. She is practically clapping her hands together in glee. She looks like a child on Christmas morning. She is stunning. You swallow the words that are resting on the tip of your tongue. Now is not the place, not here, in some deserted alley in front of the creepiest book shop you've ever seen in your life. The windows are dirty and the books barely visible through the murky glass look tattered and ragged.

It's starting to get dark. You hadn't realized how quickly night came out here, this close to the ocean. The streetlights have just flickered on, casting long shadows on the cobblestones. For a moment, you can almost imagine that you are back in London on a December night, heading home after a long day spent out with Wooly tracking down some god-forsaken artifact. Heading home to the warmth of a fire and a hot cup of tea and Christina. Christina with her bouncing curls and bright eyes. You shake your head because for a moment, Myka's childlike excitement caused you to see your daughter's face and not her own.

Her smile is starting to fade. You aren't reacting properly. Forcing yourself upright, you grin at her, a bit shakily, but it's there. "Well then. Lead the way, Agent Bering. Show me this fantastical place of yours."

"You're going to love it," she promises. "They have some of the best hidden treasures here. All the greats -" she continues to chatter as she opens the door, a tiny bell tinkling above the door.

"Ms. Bering!" a tiny man says from his seat behind the counter. "I was wondering when I might see you again!"

"Myka, please," she insists, grabbing your arm again and leading you over towards him. "Mr. Richardson, may I present Helena Wells."

"Lovely to meet you," you murmur softly, shaking his wizened hand.

He studies you, black eyes lively behind the fog of age. "A writer," he answers. And you wonder how he has come to that assumption. Myka is simply standing to the side, watching you both. "Excellent. Well, if you're here with Ms. Bering, you must be one of the good ones," he gives your hand a firm pat. You glance over at her for guidance. She gives you a slight nod. All's well. "So, browse away you two!" and he shoos you both off, deeper into the shop, a wink for your partner his only parting gesture.

It is not until you are three stacks deep that you realize she hasn't lied. It is one of the most astounding and confusing collections you have ever seen. Books are stacked willy-nilly with no sense of order or catalogue system. The room is musty and smells of ink and old paper. You inhale deeply. It smells like home. You run a finger along several of the spines, scanning the titles. Chaucer. And Shakespeare. Next to Nietzsche and a copy of the Quran. You glance over your shoulder suddenly because there is only air where once you could sense her standing behind you. She has disappeared, wandering away down one of the many aisles, already entranced by the call of so many great works.

You don't know how long you've been looking, picking up one title, to replace it somewhere else when another catches your eye. You flip through some of Dickinson's poems, but get sidetracked by the final pages of _Heart of Darkness. _You've forgotten how powerful these old words can be. They buoy you up before you even knew you'd started floundering.

You want to thank her for bring you here. When you see it, hidden behind a much loved copy of Baum's _Wizard of Oz, _you can't help but smile. Perfect. You extract it gently and then begin the task of searching out the woman who accompanied you to this quiet fantasy world.

You're peering around a corner when you feel a cool hand slip into your own. You nearly jump. She's started doing that more often: holding your hand at random moments: when it's just the two of you walking back to the office through the Farnsworth aisle after a long day of inventory, when you pass one another in the hallway at the B&B, when you're sitting in the airport waiting on your flight and you're so lost in memories of past centuries that you almost forget you're not alone. You aren't sure what it means and you're too frightened to ask. You've never been one to admit to fear. All out, guns blazing, that's your usual method of approach. But, you are afraid, afraid of spooking her, startling her away, so you keep your idiotic mouth shut and try not to read too much into it when your entire body tingles at her touch.

"We should head back," she whispers. She's whispering because even though you're the only two customers in the shop, the weight of the books sits heavy above you. This is a holy place, as close to a church as you will ever come. And you want to hum in satisfaction that she feels it too.

"Pete will be wondering where we've gone off to," she continues.

"Yes, well, we wouldn't want to keep Peter waiting," you agree with a grin.

"Did you find anything?" she asks, attempting to peer around you and read the title clutched in your hand, but you shield it from prying green eyes with a smirk.

"Maybe," you answer.

She lifts a single eyebrow, and you're very nearly undone. When did she get so good at that?

You look away and head for the front of the store quickly, more to hide your racing heart than anything else. She has a way of seeing straight through you. It is both disconcerting and infuriating. You wish you knew how she managed it.

You look back at her, pleased to see that she has been easily sidetracked by something and isn't looking. The shopkeeper is looking at you, amused. "I'll just take this one," you put the book down on the counter and pull your wallet out of your pocket. The Warehouse doesn't really offer a salary; it's more of an allowance. But you don't have much need of money anyway.

He glances down at it, and his expression changes. Understanding, you think. He looks back up at you, his eyes softer, and then towards where she's standing several meters away, book open reverently in her palms. He doesn't speak as he pulls out a paper bag and slides the book into it without ringing it up. You stare at him, even as he reaches out to hand you the bag and you take it automatically.

"All set?" her voice is cheery, curious, but you can't tear your eyes away from the man in front of you.

You are unaccustomed to the kindness of strangers. But, perhaps this man, old and wise and full of all of the works he watches over, is not a stranger. "Thank you," you manage.

"Good luck," he responds. Then he shifts to look at her. "Don't stay away so long, Ms. Bering," he admonishes her. "It's get lonely out here."

She grins at him. "Don't worry, next time I'm in town, I'll be sure to swing by." She has your arm in hers again and is leading the way out the door. She waves at him as the door swings closed behind you both, the bell signaling your exit and you manage a grateful smile before he is cut off from view.

You're strolling down the street, still linked arm in arm, when you decide you simply cannot wait any longer. "For you," it comes out gruffly, as you shove the bag towards her.

She stops and cocks her head. "Oh, HG, you shouldn't have."

"I insist," awkward. Forced. You push the gift towards her again.

She reaches out a delicate hand and plucks it from your gasp. Sliding the novel out from its paper sheath reverently, even before she's looked at the cover. You're staring at the ground beneath your feet, trying not to blush. You are not the cocky, confident person you once were. She robs you of any charm you may have once possessed.

"Oh," she breathes out, softer this time. "Oh, Helena. I - It's - I don't know what to say. You shouldn't have."

"Do you like it?" You have to know. "You said it was one of your favorites growing up, and since you lost your copy, and I thought tha-"

She takes your hand in hers, bringing it to her lips and kissing the back of your palm before you understand what is happening, effectively cutting you off. "It's perfect," she whispers. "Thank you." Her eyes are glistening and it might be tears, but it might just be the glow of the streetlights reflected there. Either way, you are unable to look away.

"It was the last book my dad ever read to me. Before he said I was too old to be reading such ridiculous stories." She holds the book tighter to her chest at the admission, and you nod because she doesn't need words, simply confirmation that you understand. "Have you read it?"

You shake your head no.

"You should," she says suddenly, holding it out to you. "_Swiss Family Robinson, _only one of the greatest children's novels of all time. You'd like it, I think," she's biting her lip like she does when she is not quite sure.

"You read it first." You push it back towards her.

She deflates, but only for a moment. "We could," she clears her throat. Now she is the one looking away. "We could read it together," her voice no more than a whisper.

You think that perhaps you melt a little. "That would be lovely," you assure her.

"Yeah?"

"Very much so. Yes." It comes out as no more than a breath of air, but she hears you.

"Alright," she tucks the book away and takes your hand in hers again, leading the way back towards the hotel. You are not sure if you are walking or flying.


	4. Don't Be

**Don't Be**

**Bering and Wells - I don't even know why it's Christmas, but it is. And I don't edit worth a damn. And there is angst and fluff, and if my Bering and Wells muse would let me write these characters all day, I would do it. **

**Day 4 - Kissing**

You've managed to escape to your room fairly unharmed after three rousing, and yet very out of tune Christmas carols and one barely avoided meeting with Peter beneath the mistletoe. It's Christmas Eve, you're first one at Warehouse 13. You're not quite sure how to feel about it. Claudia has gone completely overboard with the decorations. You found tinsel in your clean clothes in the laundry room that morning. The tree looks like a nightmare come to life. It's absolutely horrid. And absolutely wonderful. Steve and Pete put up the Christmas lights last week and coming home to the B&B everyday has felt like walking into a dream, a snowy, winter wonderland dream full of hot chocolate and black and white Christmas films and red and green striped packages beneath the tree.

But, today has been different, because now that it's technically the holiday, you find that you aren't in the proper celebratory mood. You find yourself feeling decidedly melancholy, and you hate the thought of ruining the joyful atmosphere that has descended upon the house. As soon as was socially acceptable after dinner, you have retired, only after Claudia has extracted your promise to be up at the crack of dawn for presents. You're not sure _she _bought your carefully crafted white lie because you'd felt her eyes on your back as you trudged slowly up the stairs, but she'd let you go.

You sink gratefully down onto your bed, fiddling with the locket around your neck. With a sigh, you reach behind you to unclasp its delicate chain. It sits heavy in your hand, until you work up the energy necessary to flip it open. There she is. You run a finger across her face, preserved forever in a still black and white image. It does not properly capture the curious twinkle in her black eyes, the mischievous tilt to her chin. But it's still her. Eight years old and already her own independent mind. Your daughter. Your Christina.

You think for a moment there's a leak in the ceiling and you look up in consternation before you realize that the liquid dripping down your cheeks is your own creation. Cool and salty on your lips. You have not cried for her in many months. Tears are a dangerous road. It's easy to get swept away. But you aren't falling apart, not tonight. No. You hold the necklace to your chest. You're simply mourning, and the lump in your throat reminds you that the pain of her loss will never truly disappear, and the ache in your chest beats in time to the echo of a heart that stopped over one hundred years ago. She is gone, and the tears on this winter night are for her.

The knock at your door startles you out of your reverie. You swipe at your cheeks hurriedly, dashing away the evidence of your grief, before turning the knob and opening the door. "Oh, hello," you try to inject a tone of surprised delight, but there is a rasp in your voice that shouldn't be there.

She stares at you, not speaking. You shift from one foot to the other, gripping the locket so tightly in your hand that it's leaving an impression on your skin. The only light in the hall comes from the small lamp several feet away, and her face is half hidden in shadow. You're sure she can tell that you've been crying, and you think you ought to feel embarrassed. If it was anyone else perhaps.

Finally, "I thought we might finish," she gestures and for the first time you realize she has _Swiss Family Robinson _clutched in one hand. "We've only got one chapter left, but if you want to be alone..." she trails off. She's letting you decide.

You could send her away, beg off for the evening. You've been taking turns reading the book aloud to one another whenever you have a free evening, but what's one more in the grand scheme of things? It would be only too simple to close the door and retreat into the emptiness of your mind, but she's standing there, waiting for you, preparing herself for disappoint even as you waste time thinking about the way her cheeks look soft and smooth in the dim lighting. Thinking about what it would feel like to trace the outline of her jaw, to run your fingers along her neck. To taste her.

"Come in, please," you hear yourself say as if from far away, stepping back to let her pass. You smell her scent as she brushes past, natural and warm. You follow her with your eyes as she crosses your bedroom and pauses beside the bed. You've never read together in one of your rooms before, always in the living room or a hotel somewhere. This feels more intimate. The air is suddenly charged with anticipation that causes the hair on your arms to stand up straight. You shut the door and shuffle over to her, before crawling up onto the bed and indicating that she should join you.

It takes a moment before she does, handing you the book and then plumping up the pillows to lean back against the headboard. She shoots you a smile, unsure and questioning. You feel like one of those teenagers in the shows Claudia watches on weekday afternoons sometimes. Awkward. Hesitant.

But she plucks the book from you and flips it open to where the bookmark is lodged. She's sitting close enough for your shoulders to rub together. You can feel the heat from her body through the sweater she's wearing. You force yourself not to lean closer. She tucks a curl behind her ear, clears her throat and begins, "18. Many wondrous tales were told or read in turn by the boys and Jenny during the long evenings as we sat drawing, weaving and plaiting in our cosy study. In fact this winter was a truly happy time..."

She draws you in. Her voice spinning closed the tale of the Swiss pastor and his family on their island. Safe after all their adventures. Content and happy. There is nothing except these words, the castles she is creating in the air. Beautiful even as they are untouchable. You forget about the holiday and the people celebrating a floor beneath you. You forget about the aches of years gone by and the emptiness that is the fabric of your life. All there is exists in her.

When she trails off many moments later, the last vestiges of a far off land still echoing in the distance, you find that your head is resting on her shoulder, and you're crying again, big, heavy drops dripping down your chin to land on her sweater, soaking through. She closes the cover with an air of finality that is devastating. You abhor endings and the sob that leaves you is unintentional, ripping free from some deeper, dark place within you.

"Helena," she murmurs.

You lift your head. Her forehead is creased in worry. In care. You open your mouth to apologize for getting her sweater wet, but she moves faster than you can breathe. Her lips are on yours, covering yours, swallowing your _sorrys _and your tears as one. She is both soft and firm, asking for permission, even as she presses closer. You take what she is giving you, you ask for more by sliding one hand to cup the base of her neck. She is everything you thought she'd be. Strong. Delicate. Gentle. Fierce. You love her. You love the taste of her on your tongue. Filling you. Emptying you. Erasing you. Bringing you back to life.

When she breaks away for air, you are both panting. She rests her forehead against yours. "Don't be," she whispers.

Her face is blurry this close. You cannot peer into her eyes. You cannot ask without words if she knows what she's doing, if she's sure. But her hand in yours, the gentle squeeze, tells you everything. She is the one person who knows you better than yourself. You're the one who is always running, always fleeing and disappearing, torn away by circumstances generations in the making. And she is the one who is always calling you home; your light in the darkness, the only words that make sense in a mass of jumbled fragments. The one person who makes you believe that those lonely years and lost years and loveless years might have been fate after all.

"Don't be," she says again, and you tilt your head to kiss her once more.

**Quote from **_**The Swiss Family Robinson **_**by Johann Wyss**


	5. Explicitly Unequivocally

**Explicitly. Unequivocally. **

**Bering and Wells - They just kept coming. And coming. Because Joanne Kelly and Jaime Murray create characters that are too damn wonderful.**

**Day 5 - Wearing each other's clothes**

"But I haven't any clothes," you protest. She's dragging you along behind her up the stairs. This is becoming a theme, you've found. She's always the one pulling you forward, lifting you up, refusing to leave you behind.

"Don't be ridiculous," she throws over her shoulder.

"Darling, really. It's cold out there. Snow equals freezing temperatures. Humans are meant to remain indoors at such times."

"We don't hibernate, Helena," she refuses to budge. "Besides I thought you were adventurous."

"Adventurous, yes. Foolish and a glutton for punishment, not so much."

You're standing in front of a closed door when she spins around, taking you off guard. Her lips are on yours before you have a chance to jump in surprise. She nips your bottom lip and then runs a soothing tongue over the burn. You moan and reach forward to wrap your arms around her waist, but she dances away before you can catch on, leaving you breathless and flushed.

"Well, that was rude," you mutter, the taste of her still floating on your tongue.

She grins at you, her green eyes sparkling with mirth and barely contained laughter. You wonder how many people in the world have seen this side of her: devilish and delightful. Perhaps not many and you feel a rush of gratitude run through you that she lets down her guard in such a manner for you, of all souls. That you're the one who gets to explore all of her dark corners and hidden treasures is a gift you never thought possible.

The two of you haven't put into words what you're doing. As powerful as words are in both of your lives, you seem to have reached some sort of silent agreement that it's best, perhaps, to let what will happen, happen. Best not to attempt to describe something you can't begin to understand, best not to attempt to shove it into some structure it doesn't truly fit within. Best not to set free such vibrations into the air that could meet the ear of some potentially tragic downfall. You're both well versed in such things, and you're unwilling to risk it, whatever this is that you're engaged in.

So, instead, there are stolen kisses in the hallway at the B&B when no one else is around. There are nights spent in hotel rooms, reading aloud to one another, bodies close, wrapped around each other so tightly as to leave room only to wonder where one of you ends and the next begins. And although such evenings are always spent fully clothed and it never goes further than what Myka calls 'Second Base,' you awake in the morning feeling refreshed and rejuvenated, with heightened senses and the strange desire to sing in satisfaction. Instead, there is a soft hand trailing along a spine as you pass in the Warehouse. Flushed skin when there is eye contact over dinner. A feeling of secrecy, necessary because of the manual's rules concerning inter-warehouse fraternization, but adding fuel to the fire of your desire none-the-less. Rules which Myka seems to have memorized, but which you're getting better at driving out of her skull with a carefully choreographed dance of kisses along her neck and down to her collarbone.

"Come on!" she calls from within the room. You realize that you've been caught daydreaming, so you step through the doorway quickly, peering around curiously. "No judging," she orders, but her voice comes muffled from the closet. "I was a weird kid."

There are no posters hung up on the beige walls. No sign that this was once the bedroom of a child, of a young girl coming into herself. The white bedspread is tucked in tightly. The curtains drawn, sending the room into shadow. The desk, oak, is bare. The only sign that this might once have been considered the safe haven of a child trying to discover her place in the world is the bookshelf stretching along one wall, full to bursting. But even that is well organized and, as you run an appraising eye along its contents, catalogued in alphabetical order, you release a very unladylike, fond snort. You run a finger along the dusty titles. It feels strange to be here now, in her space, in the place where she did her growing up. Myka's always been fairly close-mouthed about her past, but now it feels as though she's handed you the key and is giving you permission to unlock the door. You're not sure you deserve such trust.

You're in Colorado Springs on a mission. Just the two of you, having left Agent Lattimer back in South Dakota. Myka, out of some strange sense of childlike guilt, had admitted that she'd need to visit her parents while in town, and you'd delightedly offered to join her. You'd visited her father's bookshop before, but that was when you'd been a hologram, in consciousness only. She'd introduced you as a colleague to her parents, but also as a friend, and the word, although not exactly the one you might have chosen to describe these emotions coursing through your veins, had still sent a jolt of happiness through you.

And now it's late afternoon and has begun to snow, adding another downy layer to the meter of precipitation already present.

"Here!" she sings, stepping out of the closet, her arms loaded down with cotton clothing. You stare at her. "Well," she dumps them on the bed. "Get dressed," and she waves an airy hand in your direction.

You stare from her to the pile and back.

"Oh for Gods' sakes, HG," she sighs. She's used your nickname. She only ever does that anymore when you're really beginning to annoy her, so with no small measure of trepidation, you begin sorting through her offering.

You kick off your boots and slide into a pair of tattered sweat pants over your jeans, tying the string tight about your waist. She laughs when she sees that they're two inches too long.

"Here," she offers, holding out a long sleeve t-shirt. You pull it over your head. "And this," she says. You take the overlarge sweatshirt. Bering & Sons it reads across the front. "It was my dad's," she explains. "I think I stole it when I was twelve."

You've never worn clothes such as these before, heavy and cotton and baggy on your thin frame. But when the top is in place, you stick your hands into the pouch on the front, the hood pillowed behind your head and you wonder why it is that people don't walk around in such clothes all the time. The fabric is soft and warm and you feel as if you've wrapped yourself in a giant blanket. A blanket that smells of honey and vanilla; you resist the urge to hold the fabric over your nose. It smells like Myka, and for a moment you can almost pretend that she's wrapped her arms around you and is holding you close. You smile at her shyly.

She leans forward to press a quick peck to your cheek. "Ready?" She's bouncing up and down in excitement.

You laugh. "Alright. Let's go. But what about shoes?"

"I've got you covered," she says, leading the way back down the stairs and towards the back door. Once there, she offers you a pair of her mom's old winter boots. A large winter coat that dwarfs you, a terribly tacky orange hat that she pulls down over your eyes in jest and mittens that make your hands start sweating indoors immediately. You let her dress you, getting ready to face the elements, because she's having so much fun and you want to watch her glow forever. Then you wait patiently while she dons her own snow gear, much more modern you note, and matching.

Finally, when you're both ready, she gives you a daring smirk, raising one eyebrow. "If I get hypothermia, I'm blaming you," you tease, and that's her cue to open the door and lead the way out into the snow.

You're not quite sure what you were expecting. You always spent the winters in London or Paris in your other life. And you've all been much too busy at the Warehouse to spend an afternoon outside, enjoying the snow. You've always hated the cold, and that distaste has only grown since the events in Russia, when you experienced the bone-numbing cold trapped in a piece of wood from the Titanic. You'd forced Myka to teach you about that particular tragedy afterwards. It haunted you some nights, when you'd wake freezing from your dreams.

So you've been avoiding winter, pretending to hibernate, much preferring the warmth of a crackling fire and a hot cup of tea. But, this, this is nothing like what you'd been expecting. She leads you to a park a block away from her father's shop. It's deserted; the children have yet to be let out of school for the day, and the new snow is untouched, pristine. The flakes fall thickly from the gray sky, clinging to her hat and settling in her boundless curls. Her cheeks are red and her eyes are twinkling as she takes in your wondrous expression. There is a hush upon the world, the sounds of cars passing in the nearby streets are muffled and much further away. You are alone with her. She leads you to a stand of trees before flopping down in the snow beneath them. You look at her askance, but she pats the ground beside her.

"Trust me," she encourages. How do you tell her that you already do? Explicitly. You lay down gingerly in the snow, and then glance over for more direction. Her arms are raised above her head, and when she meets your eye, she nods and then begins to move her appendages in a rhythm. Rubbing a pattern there. You follow suit, back and forth, up and down. Until you've worn a figure into the ice crystals, two inches below the surface.

You've seen children make these things before. A faint memory tugs at you, urging you to return to a time when your daughter would enter the house, wet snow dripping from her clothes, but Myka's reached out to take your mittened hand in her gloved one, and she pulls back from the edge. She's forever doing that, and you're forever grateful. These are, "Snow angels," she murmurs. Her voice floats up to through the leafless branches and out towards the sky. You'd think you'd like to stay that way forever, watching the flakes float down to land with a prickling sensation on your face that fades almost before you've had time to recognize it. Her hand in yours, keeping you grounded, keeping you present. You may not have managed to create a proper time machine on earth, but you've found that ever since your time in bronze, you've had more difficulty understanding the boundaries between time and space. You've felt hollow, see-through, a sensation only exacerbated by your time trapped within the labyrinth of the Janus Coin. But with her, you are more present, more real.

She gives a tug though, and rises carefully to her feet. You do the same, using her for leverage so as not to ruin the figure you've created. The two of you examine your handiwork, beautiful, pure, delicate. Fleeting in their existence. The words are there, on the tip of your tongue, and it would be only too easy to release them into the stillness. Because you're sure of them, for perhaps the first time in your life, in your lifetimes. You're sure. You've never been the first to use them, to set them free, but here, beneath the cover of a sky that hangs lower than usual, beneath the branches of trees that have kept hundreds of secrets, you could say it. You could.

But it isn't time. Not yet. Perhaps it never will be. You remain silent. And you hold her hand. And you look at the angels you've created in the snow. And you tell her, with all of the hope in your chest and the pain buried layers deep beneath your skin, the mistakes you've made laid open before you both, bleeding into the whiteness, the dreams you hold onto even upon waking, with all the strength you can muster, and in complete silence, without a word. You tell her. _I love you. Unequivocally. _


	6. Indomitable

**Indomitable**

**Bering and Wells - I am not the captain of this ship. I have no say as to where the wind blows. Who doesn't adore some good ole B&W angst to close out the day. Love. It. **

**Day 6 - Arguing **

Her footsteps on the stairs cause you to swear under your breath. If this was any other time, you might take a bit of pride in the fact that you can recognize her tread. Any other time. But not today. You thought you'd have more time. More time to come up with a way to handle this conversation, not to avoid it, but to go in prepared, with a plan of attack. Now, however-

"Helena?" the footsteps have paused outside your door. She knocks softly. "Helena, can I come in?" except she's already pushing open the door and stepping through.

Shit. Your body curls in on itself in preparation.

"Claudia called the Warehouse. She said Mrs. Frederic showed up and the two of you locked yourselves in the study for hours. She said something was wrong. I came home just to check on y-" She stops. You close your eyes and send up a silent plea to whomever is out there, whatever manages these things. "What are you doing?" Her voice sounds suddenly smaller.

"Darling," you force a smile onto your face as you spin around to face her. She's standing just within the doorway, staring at the offending article resting on your bed. "I wasn't expecting you home so soon."

"Like I said, I was just coming to check on you..." she trails off. "HG," she tears her gaze away from the bed and up to meet your own. She looks like a lost child and you would like nothing better than to step forward and sweep her up into your arms. "What's going? Are you - are you going somewhere?" She waves a finger towards the suit case, open and half full behind you.

"I-" you cannot meet her eyes. "Well, you see, darling," but you grimace because how are you supposed to explain this to her without actually explaining it? Mrs. Frederic's voice is loud in your head, _'You're to tell no one the logistics of this assignment, Ms. Wells. Not even Agent Bering. Do we understand one another?' _You'd cleared your throat, _'Perfectly.' _Because arguing with the Caretaker is futile, even for you.

"You're leaving," she answers for you.

"Yes," you are relieved. But when she raises an eyebrow at your tone, you attempt to backpedal. "I- What I meant to say is yes. I-I am," you look down at your stocking clad feet in embarrassment.

"Why?" She is attempting to sound detached. It isn't working. You're breaking into hundreds of pieces and it's like falling without end.

"Myka, you know I can't tell you that." You are so, so terribly sorry.

"Well, how long are you going to be gone for? No," she holds up a hand and answers her own question, "you can't tell me that either."

You don't have the words to tell her how sorry you are, so instead you simply stand with your hands at your sides. She taps her fingers against her thigh in thought.

"But why!" the outburst startles you, even if you were expecting it. "Why you? Why now? I thought we were past all of this ridiculousness. I thought they said last time, after the astrolabe that you were back. For good. I just- I don't get it!"

You shake your head, "I'm sorr-"

"No. Please. Tell me. Explain it to me. I'm trying to understand, but I-I-I can't!" She's pacing in front of you now.

"Myka, you know the regents-"

"Screw the regents!" She sounds a bit mad and it's frightening you. "I mean it," she enthuses when she realizes that you don't believe her. "Where do they come off playing with people's lives like that? Playing with your life - _our _lives?"

"Darling," and you step forward, reaching for her shoulders to stop her incessant movement. You're feeling a bit ill watching her go back and forth like that. "You'll wear a path in the floor," you try for humor. She simply glares at you.

"I mean they can't just do that. They have to at least give you a choice," you look away. You feel her tense beneath your touch. "Choice. The-they gave you a choice? Helena. Helena, look at me," she orders.

Her green eyes are biting today, not the soft glow of spring growth. Rather the stormy depths of an enraged sea. "They let you choose."

"They did," you affirm apologetically.

"And you're going. You're still going?" she stumbles back several paces.

"Myka," you reach for her, pleading for her to wait, to let you explain. "I have to go. I have information they might be able to use."

"So, give them what they need from here!" she screeches.

You shake your head, "I can't. I have to go."

"Of course. Of _course _you do. Helena G. Wells. Playing the hero. As usual."

"What's that supposed to mean?" you snap, because you're getting annoyed with her. She's acting like a petulant child.

"Running off to save the day all by yourself. It's what you do best isn't it?" she sneers.

"Look, they've asked me to help and I said I would. It's not like _I _asked _them." _

"But I'm sure you were positively thrilled. Over the moon!" She rolls her eyes. "You're the chosen one, HG. Right? The one the regents can't live without. And you love it. You love being the one they turn to."

"That isn't fair-"

"I'm sure they love you. All your knowledge and experience and expertise. HG Wells: inventor, author, all-around genius."

"Please, don't be nasty. It doesn't suit you."

"Admit it. You love the attention don't you. The power," she bites the word off, harsh and unyielding.

"That isn't true!" You're not sure when you started yelling. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard! Of course I didn't _ask _for this. It's not like I want to go-"

"Right," she snorts, turning away.

"I'm doing this for you!" you insist.

"Excuse me?" she spins back around, pointing an accusing finger at you. "For _me? _How could leaving, _again, _possibly be for me?"

"It is. It just _is_." Because you are under oath not to discuss the ins and outs of your assignment. You wish, more than anything, that you could tell her...something. Anything! Promise her that you'd be coming back after only a few days. Tell her it wasn't some ridiculous, dangerous, idiotic mission.

"Well, I'm afraid that's not going to cut it for me, Helena," her voice is lower now, indoor volume. The note of finality scares you more than anything Mrs. Frederic may have told you several hours ago.

"Myka, please. Please. You know I don't want to leave you," you step forward, but she bats your hand away. "Darling, if I could tell you, I would. If I could stay here and know that you'd be safe, if I could ensure your wellbeing without leaving your side, I would do it in a heartbeat."

"I don't need saving, Helena. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"O-of course you are," you stutter. "I wasn't trying to imply that y-"

"And you're not some white knight on a valiant steed."

"Myka-"

"So just stop! Just tell them you won't do it. We need you here. You're part of this team, our team. _I _need you here. God, HG, please," she's crying, tears making their slow way down her perfect cheeks. She's trying to pretend it isn't happening, that she isn't allowing herself to completely fall apart in front of you, but you can't ignore it. "I can't be without you again. Not again. Please," she sounds smaller than you have ever heard her.

You are at a loss, unsure how to handle this situation that has spiraled so quickly out of your control. You wonder where the days have gone. The ones of cuddling on the couch, finding home in her arms, of books shared and delighted in, of jokes with the other agents, with your _family, _of snow angels and snow ball fights and hot chocolate and happiness. You wonder if those memories are just dreams, figments of your imagination. _This_ is the real world. Real life. Pain. Heartbreak. Anguish. You could fill a thousand novels with moments such as these. And still the words would overflow, spilling across the pages faster than you could plug the holes, until you were drowning.

You cross the distance separating the two of you, the three feet of wooden flooring feels like oceans. You wrap your arms around her. You do not whisper that it's alright, because it isn't. You do not whisper that you are sorry, because words will not do it justice. You do not get the chance to wipe away her tears or attempt to commit the way she fits against you to memory, before she is pulling away.

"I can't," she says. "I just can't." She rushes out the door, bumping into Claudia and Pete on her way. They are staring at you both in consternation. Excellent. Now the entire house will know. And you'll come out as the bad guy once more and they'll all go back to hating you. But you don't waste much time thinking about them. Instead you wrap your arms around yourself tightly, trying to trap the feeling of her warmth, her softness and her indomitable strength within you. But you're too slow; she's already gone, and you're left only with the echo of vanilla and salt water hanging in the air and a hole in your heart that will eventually fill up with all the things you should have said, drowning you in what might have beens.


	7. Yours, Always

**Yours, Always**

**Bering and Wells - I don't even know what to say. Whoever may be reading these, you're excellent, and I apologize for my subpar Bering and Wells fic writing skills. I am in no way adequate enough for the feels these two induce. **

**Day 7 - Making Up**

"You should go to her," the young voice startles you. You look up from where you're hunched over your desk, pen dropping from your hand.

"What?" you ask, except you know to whom she is referring.

"Myka. You shouldn't leave things like that," she glances meaningfully towards where your bag is sitting at the foot of your bed, packed and ready to go.

"I-I wouldn't know what to say," the admission is difficult. "I was going to write her a letter," you indicate the blank page before you.

She snorts and plops down on your bed. "Hand written love letters. How sweet and...Victorian of you," she plays.

"No one said anything about love," because that's the word you've locked onto. You shouldn't have been so hasty however when she cocks an eyebrow at you.

"Please. Even Artie knows something's been going on between the two of you. You'd have to be living in a hole not to have figured it out. You're not exactly subtle, HG. And Myka isn't all that great at hiding those longing glances she sends you whenever your back is turned." But she says it fondly.

Apparently you have not been as discrete as you'd thought. There's no point denying it any longer, and it doesn't sound as though the younger agent has gone back to hating you after witnessing the fight from earlier. That's a somewhat hopeful sign. "It's not that simply, Claudia," you sigh, wondering how to explain something you don't even understand yourself.

"Look, I'm not saying I'm some big expert in the relationship department. The last two guys I tried the whole dating slash liking thing with ended up hightailing it out of town faster than you can say external hard drive."

"Claud..."

"But, it's obvious that whatever you and Myka have got going on is something big. Like major serious. So, don't just leave without making it better. I mean you care about her don't you?"

"Yes, of course," you sit up straighter.

"Like actually care about her. Like not destroy the world if it means destroying her kind of care about her?" It's a not so subtle allusion to Yellowstone, but when you peer closer, she is staring at you innocently.

"Yes," you answer, slower this time, shuddering internally at the mental image of Myka standing before you, shoving a gun into your hand, telling you to shoot her. That's one memory that will forever haunt you.

"Well than it's easy."

"Easy?"

"As pie," there is a mischievous twinkle in the red head's eye. "You love her, she loves you, end of story, el fin, presto!" she claps her hands together and stands.

"But, I-" because it isn't that simple. You can't just go and talk to her. She doesn't want to see you.

"HG," and Claudia comes over to put her hand on her shoulder. "Just go to her. You don't need to wow her with your genius or write her a novel. I'm pretty sure she has all of yours memorized by now. Just," she pauses searching for the right words. "_be _with her. For one more night. And then when you come back," she stares at you and you both acknowledge that she has not said if, "the two of you can go back to getting your lovey-dovey on."

"I-"

"Dude. Seriously. Aren't you supposed to be like superwoman or something?" She squeezes your shoulder before letting go. "She loves you. Even if she hasn't said it yet. Trust me."

You give her a soft smile. "When did you get so wise?" you wonder.

"It's Steve," she shrugs. "His zen stuff is rubbing off on me," and she's prancing out the door with a grin on her face and a parting wave for you.

You turn back to the paper on your desk, white and glaring in the gathering darkness. "Go to her," you mumble, dropping your head into your hands. "Like walking into a lion's den is simply a Sunday afternoon stroll."

It's completely dark out, nearing eleven, but you're certain that she's still awake based on the light shining out from beneath her door. You knock softly and wait, holding your breath.

"Come in," she calls at last. She knows it's you.

You push the door open and step through quickly, before you lose your nerve. She sighs and closes the book held in her lap, holding her place a single, long finger. She watches you and you wish you had the wherewithal to hold still, to stop twisting your ring about your finger nervously, but you can't. You've never had trouble holding your own in a stare down. Except with her.

"Hello," you whisper, chancing a glance up.

"Hi," and her voice carries none of it's normal warmth.

"I-I thought that perhaps we might talk."

"About what?"

She's stumped you there, because what more is there to discuss? "Well, then I suppose I thought we might_ not _talk."

"Helena, now isn't exactly the time."

"Oh! Oh, no, you misunderstood me, darling. I didn't mean - No - Just - I thought since it's my last night here..." you trail off because this is turning from bad to worse and you have no control. The ship is sailing itself it seems. You stare at the ground, wishing for a hole to open up and swallow you before she has the chance to kick you out of her bedroom. "I shouldn't have come," you turn blindly for the door.

"No!" She stops you. "No, I- wait." You hear the sheets rustling, but you don't look up until you see two feet sporting brightly painted toenails poke into your line of sight and a slim finger lifting your chin. "Don't go," she murmurs, and you're thankful because she isn't talking about the regents or Mrs. Frederic, or tomorrow morning. She's talking about now. This moment. "I'm mad at you," she explains, even as she takes your hand and leads you towards the bed. "And I don't plan on letting you off easily." You shake your head no, as she holds the covers up for you and you slip silently between the cotton sheets. She walks around the foot of the bed and lays down beside you, her head coming to rest on your chest like a magnetic drawn to its opposing pole. "But, I'm going to pretend that I'm not furious with you right now. Okay?"

Your lips quirk up into a smile she does not see. "Okay," you smooth her hair down. "Alright."

She lifts her head to give you a fierce look. "Helena."

"Yes?"

She leans forward, catching your lips with her own. She is firm against you, insistent. You do not push back, you allow her to lead, opening yourself when she asks it of you, moving with her in perfect harmony. When she breaks your connection, her green eyes are burning with an intensity you have never seen, "When you get home, I am going to be furious with you."

"Of course, darling."

And she presses forward to kiss you once more, her tongue runs along your bottom lip, before dipping into your mouth. You want to moan at the taste of her, but you remain silent. She's wrapped a hand around the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and your hands have begun to trace the contours of her back of their own volition. When you reach the hem of her nightshirt, you slip beneath it, sliding your fingers along the silky smooth expanse of her spine. Her other palm is laying on your stomach, burning a hole through your shirt, so hot you can almost imagine her fingerprints leaving marks upon your skin. You forget the body's need for oxygen, forget the day waiting for you on the morrow, forget your own name until she murmurs it hot and heavy against your cheek.

"Helena, Helena."

She's lying on top of you and you aren't sure when you're positions changed or when your heart stopped working properly. It's beating erratically, you can hear the pounding throughout your skull, louder than all the waves upon all of the ocean shores in all the world. "Helena," as if from a great distance. "Helena," grounding you so you don't float away.

Your lips are on fire. You are not sure where you end and she begins. Definitions are hazy and infinite. Atoms are splitting off, jumping ship, the line between your bodies is fading. She slips her hands beneath your shirt, scorching your skin as they meander along your torso. Her mouth is sucking at your pulse point, encouraging the blood to move through your veins at her command. She is whispering your name across the curve of your jaw, beside your ear. Even covered in the heat of her, you shiver.

Her hands stop their upward journey beneath your breasts and she slides them beneath you to rest upon your shoulder blades. She kisses you once more fiercely, and then softer and softer, until she is nothing more than snow upon your skin. Then she lays her head down upon your chest. You stare up at the ceiling, white and cracked with age, still running your fingers along her spine, counting the vertebrae, the bumps and dips that make up landscape of her body. You are both breathing hard, but as you wait, your racing pulses slow, until you are breathing in time with one another. In and out. Easy. Slow.

And before you quite know what is happening, you're falling asleep, cradling her to your chest. Just like that, your eyes are growing heavy with fatigue, and you feel her relaxing, each muscle releasing the day's tension. "Helena," she says once more, heavy with waiting dreams.

"Sleep well, my darling. Sleep well."

You dream of her. Always of her.

And when you awaken, before the sun has peeked his head above the horizon, she has rolled off of you to lay with your bodies spooned around one another, her dark curls splashed across the cream of the pillow covering like a child's masterpiece. You slide carefully from her embrace, placing the gentlest of kisses on her brow. "Sleep well, my love." You place the letter you have written on the nightstand, 'Darling' flowing across the front in your loose scrawl, and tiptoe from the room.

It is not enough. These past months have not been enough time with her. This last night is not enough. Any hope you might offer her, any love, silent though it may be, is not enough. And the words that you leave behind will not be sufficient. But they are all you have to give, and you leave them for her. Exposed. Utterly naked for her eyes alone.

In the end, the words had flowed easily from your pen, dripping down upon the page even as they knew they were inadequate and could only be found wanting. It had been the closing that had given you the most difficulty. Until at last you'd left it simply, sweetly,

_Yours. Always._

_Helena_


	8. Peeping Tom

**Peeping Tom**

**Bering and Wells - I don't even know how to count to 30 anymore. What is life? Why don't dinosaurs exist anymore? What if this is all just the 7 minutes you have to relive your entire life before you die? Thoughts I try to use to distract myself from my Bering and Wells feels. ...it's not working.**

**Day 8 - Birthdays**

You watch from beneath the maple trees, the late afternoon sun slanting through the red and orange of the autumn leaves to lay gently across your skin. You'd never appreciated the stillness of the woods before. You'd lived nearly your entire first life in London, where the bustle of horse drawn carriages, the cries of newspaper boys, the street musician with his beating drum made up the symphony of your life. When you'd first returned to Univille and the B&B, you'd actually had difficulty sleeping because of the silence. It had taken on the aspect of a physical specter, laying heavily upon you.

Now however, now you tilt your head back and breathe deeply. The air smells of damp and decay, but the wind brings the bite of frozen precipitation, sharp and clear on its coattails. It burns your lungs, and when you open your eyes, the colors appear brighter, more in focus. It is peaceful here. The rustling of the leaves above you, the creak of that one broken shutter on the second floor, the silence that is not empty as you'd first thought, simply quieter than you'd ever realized. The noises intertwine themselves into a lilting harmony of pumpkins on porch steps and hot apple cider and the easy close of another year. They are the sounds of home.

You wrap your arms closely around you for the added warmth and peer out from beneath the limbs of your hiding place. You're actually fairly pleased with yourself: tucked out of the wind, out of sight of the house, but able to see through the living room window. If you weren't so excited, you'd perhaps feel a bit guilty acting the part of the peeping tom. But, as you stomp your feet to get the blood flowing, you feel nothing but a melancholy happiness.

They're all there, gathered in the living room. Dusk is falling and they've turned the lights off so the only illumination comes from the many small birthday candles sticking out of the cake. You assume there are one for each year. Claudia decorated the dessert and so it is a safe bet. They're singing; their voices echoing out across the lawn through the glass to meet your ears. Out of tune, with Pete too loud and Claudia off key.

But she is blushing and smiling, glowing in the candle light, and so you are grinning from ear to ear. She looks lovely. A bit tired, a bit more worn than you would like. The fatigue sits heavy on her shoulders, and the twinkle in her green eyes has dimmed. But, lovely nonetheless.

"It's been a rough few months for them," the voice startles you, but you do your best not to flinch, staying focused on the scene playing out before you.

"Make a wish," you whisper as the song comes to an end and she closes her eyes before taking a deep breath and blowing out the specks of fire. A rousing cheer ensues and everything is dark until Steve flips on the light. You wish for her. For her happiness.

"You shouldn't be here," she says, her tone even and commanding.

Claudia hands her the first piece of cake, almost larger than her face, and you can practically hear her telling the younger agent to make it smaller. Insisting that she doesn't eat sugar. As much of a lie as that is.

"Agent Wells," she speaks again. "If anyone finds out you're here-"

"They won't," you respond shortly. Because she's correct of course. If they find out you've been here, that you are in any way connected with Warehouse 13, there will be hell to pay. Your months of running, of hiding, as much as it makes your lip curl to think that that is what you have been forced to do, will have been for nothing. The nights of sleeping alone in scratchy motel sheets in some god-for-saken run-down building halfway between nowhere and the end of the earth, waking up with tears glistening on your cheeks when you realize she is not beside you, of daydreams that feel so real you can practically feel her hand in yours, will all have been a waste.

You can very nearly hear her raise one perfectly arched eyebrow from behind you. "I just - I had to see her. Just today," you are explaining, but it comes out as more of a plea.

When you glance over your shoulder, she is not looking at you, but rather watching the scene playing out through the large, plate-glass window. "Please," you murmur. And you are asking for her to acquiesce, to agree to just five more minutes, just five more minutes to study the way her new hair cut causes her curls to rest upon her shoulders, to trace her jaw line, to fill yourself with her smile. Because you haven't seen her in six months, and it could very well be another half a year before you see her again. Because you are parched and she is your savior.

"Alright," she agrees with a heavy sigh. "But, no one can know we were here." She means the regents, because they would not approve. You give a quick nod, turning your full attention back to the house.

They're doing presents now. She unwraps each one carefully, folding the wrapping paper, saving it for another day. A candle from Steve, some sort of technical device from Claudia that you can't get a good look at, but you think it's more of a present for herself and Pete as their faces light up after Myka opens it. A package from Peter so bright it makes your eyes water even from a distance, and you know it's something ridiculous when she gives him a good-natured punch upon discovering its contents. A batch of Artie's famous cookies which the two most immature agents immediately break into.

You hold your breath. "One more!" Pete's voice is loud enough to reach you. He hands her the final package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. Her face gets that curious look, like she's running through the list of presents in her head and who they've come from, wondering how this last one appeared. Mrs. Frederic has stepped up to stand beside you. You blink.

She removes the simple covering as carefully as she did all the others. You watch as her expression changes from one of confused wonder to understanding, to clarity, and then to hope. It flashes across her features quickly as she spins to glance about the room. You feel the grin slide from your own face. She's looking for you. And the second of hurt, of disappointment that she is unable to mask causes your heart to tear itself in two.

She glances back down at the item in her lap. And when you see Artie's mouth move, asking what it is, she smiles softly up at them all, gathered around her, curiosity reflected in their eyes. "Nothing," you read her lips. "Just something from my parents." She holds it up so they see the cover, _Pride and Prejudice, _the book that had been next on your list to consume together. It's a second edition you'd managed to wrangle up in a tiny bookstore somewhere in New York. You'd fought when she put it on the list, but in the end you'd given in. As usual. They all nod in misunderstood understanding, however, and go back to their cake and ice cream, but you don't look away until she has slipped upstairs under the pretense of putting away her gifts and is gone from your sight.

"Happy birthday, darling," your voice barely more than a whisper, your words dissipating into the night air before the vibrations of lips have completely settled. You turn to the ageless woman next to you. "Alright," you exhale heavily. "I'm ready to go now." You aren't. This has hardly been enough time. You haven't even gotten to hear her voice, or hold her in your arms, or trail your fingers along the smooth expanse of her naked back. But, for now, this will do. This one sip of ice-cold water, fresh from a mountain stream. It will have to tide you over, for now.

She nods and begins to walk away, so you follow her. "But, this better be resolved soon," you mutter, not looking back at the receding B&B. You're not sure how much longer you can last. Or how much longer she can be expected to wait for you. Some ever disappearing, reappearing woman out of time.

She'll find the post it note when she opens the novel later, stuck to the inside front cover. You couldn't write much, nothing to give you away. Or to give her away. They mustn't find out about your connection with her, with any of your family, because they _are _your family now. If they did, well, you shudder to think what might happen to them, to her. You have to be careful, always moving, always leaving, distrustful of anyone and everyone.

But, she'll read it, and she'll know that it's from you. And you can only hope that it is enough. _Yours. _it reads. _Always. _


	9. Trust

**Trust**

**Bering and Wells - Who even knows anymore. I just-gah-can't function with these two. And all the feels. Everywhere. And apples. Dying. Totes. **

**Day 9 - Looking Into Each Other's Eyes**

You are trapped, frozen in place, wracked with indecision, when you hear Mrs. Frederic's voice playing through a conversation from months ago.

"_You remember Isabel?"_

"_Isabel?"_

"_Your brother's first wife."_

_Your eyes light up in understanding. "That's why I'm here?"_

"_Well, yes," she'd looked uncomfortably at Peter's mother, the regent in charge of this case. "It appears she means to take over the Warehouse."_

"_Wait," you raise a hand in consternation. "We're talking about Isabel. Charles' Isabel." You do not say _your _Isabel, because although she was married to your brother, she spent more nights in your bed than in his. "A woman whom I would assume died at least fifty years ago." Neither older woman meets your confused gaze. "Didn't she?"_

"_Not exactly," Mrs. Lattimer says slowly. "She found an artifact. The original manuscript of Washington Irving's _Rip Van Winkle _to be exact."_

"Rip Van Winkle."

"_Yes, the story-"_

"_I know the story," you hiss. "So you're saying she found the book and used it to take an extremely long nap which just so happened to end now?"_

"_About six months ago, we suspect."_

"_We were hoping you might be able to provide some insight into her motivation," Mrs. Frederic's tone was ice._

"_Does she know about me?"_

"_We believe she does, yes. And that you're involved with the Warehouse. But not it's location. We cannot find any records on her from Warehouse 12 and we are curious as to how she found out about it in the first place."_

_You twist the ring around your finger anxiously. "My fault," you admit easily. "Charles and Isabel married because he needed a wife to act as mother to-" you gulp, but your voice does not shake on her name, "to Christina. In actuality however, he thought he was simply doing another favor by providing the two of us with the perfect cover for our, um, love affair." Mrs. Frederic's raised eyebrow and the regent's conspicuous cough cause you to flush. "We shared an infinity for the strange and wondrous. We were both fascinated with the thought of time travel." You sigh. "I told her about Warehouse 12. At the time, I was under the impression that she would end up being my "one." I was…sorely…mistaken. It turned out that she was merely using me to get close to the artifacts. Yet, after she and Charles divorced, she continued to entertain some type of disillusionment concerning our relationship. She played the part of jealous lover quite well."_

"_I see," Jane murmured softly. "Well," she looked to the impenetrable woman beside her. "We'll have to ask for as much information as you can recall."_

"_Of course," you bowed your head in agreement._

"_And, unfortunately, we have received information alerting us that you are, after the Warehouse, number 2 on her to-do list. You see the position we're in. If she finds _you, _she will have access to someone with extremely delicate information."_

_You feel your face fall. "Hiding." It is not a question._

"_Only until we can track her down. And there is to be no contact with any of the other agents at the Warehouse. At this point, we aren't sure what her intelligence is, or if she even knows the identities of the others. We'd like to keep it that way. Any ties with you must be severed." Her tone is business-like and controlled, but there is a hint of sympathy in her eyes, so much like her son's._

_You nod as if the news does not feel like a punch to the gut. No contact. For an indefinite period. She's going to hate you. You ache for her already._

"Come out, come out where you are!" she shrieks, cackling manically. She sounds crazier than you ever did. "We've got all your little friends, darling. You really must come out to play. Oh, and leave the Tesla behind, love. Guns were never really your strong suit."

You tighten your grasp on the weapon in defiance, and lean back against the wall. This wasn't supposed to happen. The Warehouse 13 crew wasn't supposed to be following this lead; you were. And they certainly weren't all meant to have followed Isabel into the old regents' lair in London, looking for anything that might help her break into the current Warehouse. And they definitely, most definitely, were not supposed to get caught.

You can just see Pete from your position hiding around the corner. He's been locked in some sort of dastardly looking chokehold by two of Isabel's goons. He is struggling though, even as his face turns purple. You know Artie, Claudia and Steve are all being held in similar fashions. And you know, simply by the way your heart is pounding too loudly in your ears and your stomach feels as though it's gone on holiday over the white cliffs of Dover that some ugly, stupid lout of man has his hands on _her. _It makes you want to be sick.

You'd arrived too late. The interrogation has already begun. There is the sound of fist on flesh and the muffled scream that trails off into a whimper. "Don't you touch her," Pete's voice is hoarse. "Don't you tou-" he is cut off. You hold down the bile that rises in your throat. They're hurting her and you are powerless. After all this time.

"Really, Helena. I didn't expect us to have to play this ridiculous child's game. I just want to talk. I missed you," you practically hear her pout.

Taking a deep breath, you drop the Tesla and wait until the clatter it makes as it hits the cement ground echoes off into the tense air, and then, hands tucked resolutely in your pockets, you stroll around the corner. "Isabel. What a wonderful surprise!" You make sure not to glance away from her. You resist the urge to run your eyes along Myka, to take stock of the darkening beneath her left eye, the welts along her cheek, to rush to her and remove the hand clamped tightly enough around her upper arm that it is sure to bruise. To kiss her. Most of all, you resist the desire to do that. Because it will be only worse for her if Isabel finds out you harbor some type of emotion towards her. But you have not laid eyes on her in months, and you can feel a strange fullness beneath your rib cage that has appeared with your proximity to her.

She claps her hands together in assumed delight. You try not to gag. One of her goons comes up behind you and puts a hand on your arm, but you have him on his back in seconds. Apparently people have lost the art of hand-to-hand combat in this day and age. There is the click of a safety and then the cold metal of a barrel makes its presence known against the back of your neck. You freeze.

But Isabel waves her hand airily as she approaches. The man steps back warily, and you stand from your crouched position, careful not to make any sudden movements. You glance around as you do so, trying to memorize the layout of the room, the other agents. You do not rest for more than half a second on her face. Her eyes are shadowed, hidden beneath her hair, a grimace of pain clear on her face. You force yourself to look away.

"Helena and I go way back," Isabel is telling the room at large. "Imagine my surprise when I discovered you had managed to make your way into this century as well," she grins at you, reaching out to trail a blood red fingernail along your cheek. You stiffen. "I was so hoping we might meet up quite a bit sooner than this, and in somewhat more acceptable conditions," she sniffs.

"HG!" Pete's voice is muffled and strained. "You _know _this crazy bitch!"

"Know," she giggles. "Oh yes. Helena and I certainly _know _each other well. Don't we, dear?" She leans forward and kisses your cheek, dragging her tongue down and along your jawline.

The agent makes a disgusted sound, which morphs into a gasp of pain when his captors twist his arm tighter behind him.

You can feel Artie glaring at you. Probably wondering if this was another one of your dastardly plots all along. But Claudia and Steve are both staring daggers at Isabel.. You feel a sudden rush of warmth to have gained their trust, however much you don't deserve it. When your eyes meet hers, there is surprise there, and hurt. She didn't know. You wish to be anywhere else at this moment.

"What are you doing here, Iz?" you ask from between gritted teeth.

"Isn't obvious? I'm taking over these silly children's playhouse. All those artifacts. All that knowledge."

"Knowledge," you scoff. "Don't you mean money?"

"Well, yes, that, too," she admits nonchalantly. "We were in the process of gathering information from your, friends," she says the word distastefully as though it is sour on her tongue.

"By gathering information, you mean torturing."

"I wouldn't go that far," she pouts. "Henry here was just working on this little beauty," she meanders closer to Myka. You feel your hands curl into fists against your side as the Victorian women smirks at the brunette. "She's being a bit," she bites her lower lip, "difficult."

On the pretext of studying her prisoner, you walk up to stand beside Isabel. She makes your skin crawl. "So it appears that we're at a bit of a cross roads, darling," she murmurs.

"What's that?" Your brain is spinning rapidly, trying to come up with a plan. How you might possibly get them out of this situation.

"I was under the impression that you, too, desired the downfall of the Warehouse, back in London. And I was…hoping…that might still be the case. That we might do this, together," seductive, like a snake.

It's a trick question, you think. Except that Jane said Isabel was not aware of your complete role within the Warehouse. She knows you work there, but she also knows about Yellowstone. And, it's true. The HG Wells she knew from before desired nothing more than complete and total destruction. The two of you always complemented each other well, and after your daughter's death, when you tipped from the shallow to the deep end before you understood what you were doing, before you realized your feet had left solid ground, Isabel had sought you out. She'd promised you possibility. Chaos. You'd turned her away at the time, intent on taking your own vengeance. But, times have changed and perhaps she is not in command of all the information.

"Helena," her voice is dangerous, dripping with poison.

There is a flutter of movement in your peripheral vision. You see Steve nod just slightly at you.

"I-" you lick you lips. And then you look at Myka, actually looking at her. Meeting her gaze directly for the first time since you've entered the scene. The man holding Myka jerks her head back so she is staring straight up at you. Her green eyes are wide, terrified, but trusting. Trusting. Oh, God. What have you done? You nod. Once. Still looking at the woman prostrate before you, beautiful and fragile, strong and sweet. The most wonderful woman you have ever met.

_Please, _you beg. _Please, understand._

You feel the cool handle of a knife, solid and flexible slide into your hand. Isabel runs her cold fingers up your arm. "Oh, this is going to be so much fun," she coos. She always did have a funny habit of believing you.

Myka's eyes flick down towards the knife and back to you, the expression reflected there morphing to one of confusion, to fear, and settling on stony acceptance. The trust has disappeared faster than you can blink. What a funny, breakable thing. Trust. Years to earn. Ripped away in a smattering of heartbeats.

_Forgive me._

"HG! No!" Pete yells from behind you.

But, you see Steve nod again. And Claudia's understanding expression has not changed, which means she knows.

_I love you. Please. Forgive me, _it is a fool's hope. She looks away, her face a mask of disgust. She is not struggling against the hands on her. And the agony that is tearing you apart, vein by vein, cell by cell is the worst pain you have ever experienced.

"Darling," Isabel encourages you sweetly, her hand coming to rest on your waist.

You muster a smirk. "Of course," you say. "Ready?" You step forward, as though to get a better angle.

"Yes," her voice is breathy. Excited. You feel the air on your neck.

You shift your hold on the blade until it's comfortable. You wait: one beat, two beats, three, and then those forest green eyes glance up at you once more, daring you. _I love you._

"Oh, first!" you say, as though you'd nearly forgotten. And you spin, pressing your lips to Isabel's tightly, closing your eyes so you do not have to see her face. Before she has time to smile into the kiss, you're plunging the knife into her stomach, she is collapsing into you, and Steve is moving, and everything is chaos.


	10. Devastatingly Beautiful

**Devastatingly Beautiful**

**Bering and Wells - It isn't much, but it's all I have to give. "This, and my heart beside." (Dickinson) I don't know about y'all but Helena Wells is currently my favorite authoress who never was. Hey-Seuss. These prompts aren't even real life anymore. I'm serious. **

**Day 10 - Fighting Side-by-Side **

"Darling, really," you pant. "Enough is enough with this business." She's managed to find a gun and is currently pointing it directly at your face.

"Duck," she orders. You do so immediately, falling to your knees and spinning to around to her side. She fires, once, twice, her face an ice-cold mask of determination and control.

You're not even completely finished with your spin before you're rising to engage with the man approaching Myka's blind side. This is how the two of you work best, in concert; impromptu, unchoreographed unison. You snap his outstretched wrist with a finely placed blow and then sidestep to avoid his wild kick. With a quick press to two successive pressure points, you have immobilized him. You pause for a moment, chest heaving, as you survey the scene playing out in the dimly lit basement.

Pete is currently engaged in what looks to be an old-fashioned wrestling match with a man twice his size, his normally 'chill' expression has been replaced with grim focus. Artie has pulled an artifact from nowhere, a pinwheel that emits bright colors and is causing three of Isabel's goons to shake in place. Steve has positioned himself in front of Claudia, his Tesla drawn, and held unshakingly in his outstretched hand. He is an impenetrable wall protecting the youngest agent. And where is- there! Across the room from you now. But you only have time to catch a glimpse of fiery green eyes, before you're under attack once more. You set your shoulders and assume a half-crouched position. You're pleased to note that although it's been an hundred years since you've utilized your Kempo training, your muscle memory has not deserted you.

You're not sure how long it's been since you stabbed your ex-lover, and then left her lying on the cold cement floor while she gasped for air and blood bubbled up around the blade. It could be minutes, it could be hours since the room descended into madness. The ache in your lungs from lack of oxygen, the lactic acid making its presence felt in your over-worked muscles, are the only signs that time is still moving in a linear direction.

Your only thought is to keep moving, keep striking, until the threats have been neutralized and your team is safe. Unitl _she _is safe. Because you need to explain to her what happened. You need to apologize over and over again for being absent for more than a year. You need to be given the opportunity to try and describe the way each bed you occupied for those 389 nights felt emptier than the one before. That it was the memory of her smile, her laugh that enabled you to survive when you thought you might shrivel up from the loneliness of it all. That being separated from her was very nearly worse than spending a century trapped in molten metal accompanied only by your own thoughts. That she has haunted you from the moment you parted. That you did not mean it when you kissed Isabel, that you would never, _never, _intentionally cause Myka pain, because in so doing, you would only be tearing your own heart from its confines in your chest.

You disable each man in turn, even as they flow down upon you like a never-ending river across a mountain slope, the only thought in your mind that you do not deserve her. That you have not the proper capabilities to explain to her the way your lungs felt empty, the way your fear, as the sounds of her pain reached you, caused you to suffocate in an atmosphere abounding with oxygen. That there are not enough moments in the day for you to tell her how sorry you are. How much you adore her, admire her, ache for her, love her.

There is a sudden silence that descends upon the room, stopping your forward momentum, causing you to skid to a halt, your arms waving wildly for balance. The rapid movement of humans fighting for survival has ceased as suddenly as it began. There are more bodies lying horizontally upon the floor than you remembered. There is a ringing in your ears, and for the first time, you feel something warm and thick liquid running down your cheek to drip onto the floor. You reach a hand up curiously and it comes away red and smelling of iron. You press the finger to your tongue. Yes. Blood. You're bleeding. And then you feel the sting of the cut, a slash across your cheekbone. You wonder idly, from a distance, when it happened, but as you play back the last few minutes everything is hazy: a blur of motion.

A quick check around the room: Pete, standgin, Artie, holding his arm to his side in obvious pain, but standing, Steve and Claud, yes, check. They are all still in single, human-looking pieces. And the enemy has been neutralized. Myka. Myka! You whip your head around the room. There she is, standing with her shoulders slumped, her breathing coming in quick, short gasps, staring blindly at the gun still clasped tightly in her fist.

You're across the space separating you before your brain has time to send a warning to your heart. Moving carefully, as though not to startle a wild animal, you come to a complete halt directly in front of her. She looks up at you, her eyes wide and questioning. "It's alright," you murmur, reassuring her. "It's alright." There are so many things you want to tell her.

"HG," she clears her throat, and you nod to let her know you understand. "Helena, I- you-"

You look down at the floor in embarrassment, in shame. You would never have hurt her, never have done what Isabel wanted of you, but for a moment all you can see is the look on Myka's face. Her trust in you slipping away like fog through your fingertips. You're not sure you can bear to see that hurt reflected there now. "It's alright," you whisper once more and you're not sure if you're talking to her or reassuring yourself.

Except she leans closer, trailing a finger along your cheek, bypassing the cut, following the same path Isabel had. You shiver. Because her touch is knowing and familiar, and causes you to see stars in constellations you never knew existed. "I'm sorry," the admission is released from you as one might release a bird into the afternoon sky, hoping it will fly, holding your breath until it has disappeared from view. Your eyes are closed, your chest heaving raggedly, so you do not see her soft smile, but you feel it in the way her fingers spark against your skin. "So sorry."

There is so much to be sorry for, but, "Hush," she murmurs, her lips, centimeters from your own. You can already taste her: vanilla and home. Your body moves of its own accord, searching for her, pleading for her to release you. To send you off into the sky, healed and whole and aiming for the sun.

There is the sound of a single, solitary gunshot. It echoes throughout the room. And you wonder why she is suddenly so far away, and why she is screaming your name when she was just about to whisper it. You wonder why your chest is burning, is on fire, and why the ground is rushing up to meet you. You thought you were strong enough to resist gravity's never-ending pull. You wonder why she isn't against you. You wonder why her face is shining with tears, and why she raises the pistol in her hand and releases a single shot, before dropping the gun. And you wonder as the darkness descends upon you, the night sky coming to close above you like the lid of a coffin buried six feet beneath black soil, how anyone can be so devastatingly, terrifyingly beautiful.


	11. Whole

**Whole**

**Bering and Wells - Look at all the bothers I give that I'm posting all of these silly things in one day. Zero bothers. Zero. Bothers. Oh who am I kidding, I just need to not be so unhealthily obsessed with fictional brunettes seeking same for hologram play and rope tricks. Dammit.**

**Day 11 - Spooning**

It is loud and boisterous in your room and the nurses have come in twice already threatening to kick everyone out if you don't learn how to use proper indoor voices. Except, Pete had adopted his puppy dog eyes and you'd learned how to play the invalid card quite well over the past month, so they's allowed the party to continue. You aren't exactly sure what you're celebrating; no one's bothered to tell you. All you know is that there is soda and horrible pudding from the cafeteria downstairs, and chips that taste like they were packaged before you were born. And everyone is there, everyone that you love, and they are all smiling, their faces glowing with unbridled joy.

So, you sit, surrounded by all of these happy faces, and you let their warmth wash over you, creeping in between the empty spaces in your rib cage and the fissures in your lungs and the holes pockmarked on your skin. Vanessa says you'll be given the go ahead to return to the B&B within the next several days. She says you're mostly healed. But, however brilliant a physician she may be, she did not take into account the healing you had yet to do, the healing that is going on now. Invisible to the naked eye, too miniscule for even a microscope's enhanced vision, but occurring nonetheless.

And _she _is sitting upright next to you on the bed, laughing at something Steve just said. She turns to you, her face shining, as if to check that you've understood the joke, and although you've missed it, you smile back at her. She grins, giving the hand held loosely in her own a squeeze before going back to the conversation, providing you amply opportunity to study her without being observed. She looks more relaxed tonight than she's been in awhile. Her hair is pulled back, out of her face and she's dressed down in jeans and an old grey Dartmouth hoodie that you think might have been Pete's once upon a time. You should feel jealous that she steals his clothes, but to see her looking so comfortable, free of the harsh lines of tension that have cut across her forehead for the past month and kept her straight-backed and fierce is too wonderful to take such petty concerns to heart.

You can't resist leaning forward to press your cool lips to her cheek. "You're lovely," you whisper for her ears alone. She blushes, and you press your fingers into her palm to emphasize your point. You are only being honest. She doesn't look away from Steve, who has thankfully ignored your moment of public affection, but you do not relax back against your pillows until the flush has faded from her cheeks.

It is not long after that the nurse finally returns for a third time to shoo everyone away for the evening. Visiting hours are over.

"Goodnight," you say as Claudia wraps you in a ginger hug. "Thank you for coming," you wave to Peter who grins at you through an armful of leftover food. You and Artie share a nod. The two of you seem to have come to some sort of unspoken understanding that you aren't going to discuss the past. It is best to look forward after all. And just like that, they have gone, taking the energy and the excitement with them.

You stifle a yawn and give her a lazy smile after she shuts the door and leans back against it, appraising you with one eyebrow raised. You pat the mattress beside you and scoot carefully over so she has room to stretch out. You roll gently onto your side, and she follows suit, bringing your bodies tightly together. Puzzle pieces aligned with their perfect match. You sigh happily.

"Tired?" she murmurs into your hair as you lift your head so she can place her arm beneath you.

"Mmm," is your only response.

This has become a bit of a nightly ritual. After she threatened the entire staff to bring the wrath of US Government down on them, Dr. Caulder spoke with the nurses and now everyone knows better than to kick Myka out of your room before she is good and ready. You're not even sure you could picture her as Claudia described her, haggard and worn and larger than life, threatening people with power she conjured out of thin air. But you know that it makes your knees feel suddenly weak, and causes your heart to beat like a silly schoolgirl's. She usually stays, at least until you fall asleep, and you think, although no one has told you, that for the week in which you were in a coma, she quite possibly refused to leave at all.

"Are you still angry with me, darling?" you ask softly. You feel her stiffen. "Because I think perhaps it's time we talk about the fact that I almost died. Don't you?" you have adopted a cavalier tone, hoping it will make the conversation come easier.

She doesn't speak for several moments, so you reach up to grab the hand resting gently along your torso, intertwining your fingers. You tend to feel a bit more corporeal when you are in physical contact, a bit more present. "You were gone for a year," she begins. You wait patiently. "And then you were just there. And that woman," her voice shakes, whether with anger or sadness you cannot tell without looking at her. "And the two of you…" she trails off. It is not often that you find Myka Bering unable to articulate her thoughts. It makes the entire room feel suddenly smaller and claustrophobic.

"I'm sorr-"

"Don't," she cuts you off. And then you feel her shift, stretching to hit the switch that turns off the overhead light. The room is plunged into darkness, the only illumination coming from the glowing green monitor that counts out your heartbeat for the entire world to see. What a decidedly personal thing to have exposed.

"I told you that I didn't want to hear that word," the admission comes easier in the darkness. It's good for a lot of things, illumination, but secrets and heartaches and dreams are most easily shared where there is no fear of being recognized. Sight is such a powerful weapon. "I hated you in that moment. And I hated you for going away and staying away. I hated you for disappearing again. I hated you for kissing her –"

You open your mouth to discount this particular moment, but-

"Even though I understand why you did it. I still hate the thought that you might hav-have enjoyed it."

"No," you are faster this time. Insistent.

She continues, "And I hated you for getting shot-"

"How was I supposed to know Isabel was still capable of such a dastardly act?" you respond in exasperation, "I stabbed for goodness' sake." Except she shushes you.

"I spent days thinking you might die, and it was worse than all those of months of not knowing where you were, whether or not you were safe, what ridiculous mission the regents had you on. It was worse than all of that." You feel the guilt curl up and make itself at home in your stomach. "And even though it wasn't your fault, I hated you, and I think I still hate you a little bit. It might be awhile before I'm not angry with you. Okay?" She doesn't apologize and you think that this is a relatively small price to pay to have her holding you this way, to have the chance to see her roll her eyes at the next foolish notion you concoct, to kiss her whenever you desire.

"Alright," you agree. "Of course. But there is one small problem you see…"

You pause, trying to wrap your mind around what you are about to do. The human species is innately flawed, full of grandiose dreams and absurd beliefs, quick to destroy what they find most beautiful, to use up that which they really need. Loud and obtuse and idiotic. Your time in the bronzer did not change any of those facts, to your original dismay. And your first experiences in the twenty-first century did nothing to ease the anger you'd been allowed to steep in for one hundred years. All you could see were the flaws in society, and all you desired was to see the ridiculous and insignificant human race punished for its frivolity.

Once upon a time, you would have joined Isabel without a second thought when she'd slipped that knife into your hand in the dingy basement. But, once upon a time you might have actually pulled the trigger of a gun when it was placed in your palm beneath a clear blue sky. Things change, and perhaps hope might exist after all.

You are living a life of endless wonder, and although those days you label 'glorious' are infrequent, hidden behind artifacts and bullets and ripped heartstrings, they are easier to find than they once were. And the human race does not seem so despicable after all. There is good to be found. Kindness in strangers. Hope in dark places. Intelligence and innovation among ruins. You see these things now, where once your gaze skipped quickly past them, choosing to ignore their brilliance in favor of their shadow. And it is due to her. To her goodness. Her grace. Her faith in you and her trust. Once you might have called her naïve to place her trust in you, a cracked human being if ever there was one. And perhaps you still do, but you have come to realize that here, wrapped in her arms, you would not hesitate to lay your own measly offering at her feet, in the vain hope that she might accept it as worthy of her consideration

So you take a deep breath, your lungs expanding with all the possibility the fates have allowed you. "It's a problem. That you hate me, I mean. It's perfectly acceptable of course; I would expect nothing less," you are failing miserably, headed in a crash and burn trajectory for the surface of the sun. She presses a kiss to your neck as though she understands that, for a wordsmith, your silver tongue is heavy and solid tonight. It centers you.

You are safe here, with her, beneath the shadow of the night. You have never felt safer. There is no loss swirling about you, digging its way into carefully constructed defenses, loosening foundations that were never solid in the first place. The loneliness of half-forgotten nights is merely a nosy neighbor who shan't find a way in. And the pain of years gone past is a barely remembered ache beneath your ribcage. "Hate me," you agree. "But know, please, you must know, that I will be here," you tighten your hold on her hand. "Loving you."

You have offered her everything with these few words, a modicum of air, but your entire being. All of you: your darkness, your flaws as a human, your desires, your fears, released into the blackness of a night, into the shelter of her arms. You realize, as she whispers your name quiet and low from deep in her throat, as she sits up on her elbow and pushes your hair away from your cheek, as she kisses you softly, with promise and hope for many, many glorious days, that it is true. That although you did not believe yourself to be a half, incomplete, she has quite suddenly made you a whole.

"I love you," and there is nothing more perfect in all the universe than the feeling of her smile against your neck, easy and trusting and pure.


	12. Neverland

**Neverland**

**Bering and Wells - This didn't turn out the way I wanted it to, but who am I to try and be in charge of my own work. Absolutely no one. HG and Mykes do all that. Hmph. One round of Warehouse family bonding time coming up!**

**Day 12 - Hanging out with Friends **

"Really, Peter. I have legs. I assure you that I'm perfectly capable of walking under my own power."

"Don't you drop her, Pete!" Myka orders from behind the two of you.

"Trust me," he waggles his eyebrows, "I'd never live it down if Mykes saw me letting you hobble around."

"I'm not an invalid any longer," you protest, but it is in vain as he turns sideways so as to carry you through the door without bonking your head on the entrance. You suppose that's something to be thankful for.

"Tada! Welcome home!" Claudia pops out from behind the sofa, Steve beside her, gesturing to the apparent mountain of pillows and blankets organized across the cushions.

"Will I be suffering from hypothermia as well?" you question the room at large.

There is the muffled sound of bags being dropped beside the stairwell, and then Myka enters the room, stooping to kiss your cheek as she passes. "They're just being helpful," she reprimands gently.

You sigh because she's right. And it is fairly adorable to watch them all scampering around like frightened squirrels. "Thank you," you reassure Claudia, whose face had fallen at your less than enthusiastic greeting. She brightens visibly.

Pete deposits you carefully among the mass of coziness, and steps back, grinning cockily. "Safe and sound," he comments, pretending to stretch his back. "Ahhh. If you ladies ever need any heavy lifting," he lifts one arm to kiss his bicep, and then the other, "you know who to call."

You'd hit him, but Myka already has you covered.

"Ow," he whines immediately.

"Were you calling me heavy just then, Peter?" Your eyes, like black obsidian glint dangerously.

"Wha? No! Definately not. You're like," he gestures towards you, "a feather. I didn't even need these bad boys," he taps his muscles again.

Myka rolls her eyes.

"Don't worry. You were a delightful steed," you assure him, and when he blanches and glances quickly towards Myka who has choked suddenly on air, you groan. "I was so hoping they'd do away with that particular innuendo," you mutter. "What a dastardly image."

"No such luck," Claudia pipes up. "Sorry 'bout it, Calamity Jane. Those ones never get old."

Pete giggles, sounding remarkably like a thirteen year old schoolgirl. Myka glares at him, stepping forward to fluff one of the multidutinous pillows behind you. You bat her hand away, but don't let go when she tries to pull away. She smiles softly at you.

"Well...this is fun." Peter and his five second attention span.

"Feel free to go about your daily business," you tear your gaze away from the woman above you. She was beginning to turn a delightful shade of pink. "I'm not going anywhere. Don't let me disrupt the affairs of the day."

"I _was _just about to beat level 43 and claim the castle of the feathered king," Claudia mutters hesitantly. You aren't sure what that means, but you nod.

"It would be nice to have some time to meditate," Steve follows. Claudia snorts, and he glares at her. "How was that, in any way, less nerdy than what you just said?" he fires at her.

"Yes! Yes, go!" you encourage, before they get into a full-on sibling spat in front of everyone. No one wants to listen to the two of them argue before they're at 100%, and, as much as you may grumble about not playing the invalid, you are most definitely not back to full strength. Not enough so as to break up Claudia and Steve once they get going. Most of the time you don't even understand half of what they're saying.

"Are you sure?" Claudia asks, one foot already out the door.

"I'm sure. Go on," and then the two of them are off, clattering up the stairs like children or a herd of tiny elephants. You shake your head fondly.

"I'll just be in the kitchen," Pete is sidling away. You grin. You thought you smelled cookies.

Now it's just the two of you. You sigh and lean back, closing your eyes gratefully and breathing in the scents of the B&B, the scents of home. When you blink them open once more, she is watching you, a funny tilt to her head. "You, too."

"Me, too, what?"

"Go on. Go do whatever it is you have to do. I'm sure there are files to be read or things to be caught up on. You just spent more than a month trapped in the same horrible torture chamber I did."

"It was a hospital, Helena. Not a torture facility. They made you better, remember?"

You wave away the tiny detail. "You must be dying for some fresh air, real coffee, a shower with actual hot water," you suggest. "You're looking a bit peaked, darling. Take some time for yourself."

"What are you going to do?" she pouts.

You ponder the question, glancing quickly around the room. "Ah!" you lean forward, careful of your right side. "Looks like Claudia left behind some light reading material."

"Those are plans for her next project," Myka objects.

"Which I promised to look over for her," you counter. You send her a blinding smile, "Really, darling. I'm fine here."

She doesn't believe you, but she begins to back away anyway. The call of a real shower too strong to resist. "I'll be just upstairs. And Pete's in the kitchen."

"I know," you smirk at her.

She bites her lip.

"Go," you insist, before flipping over the folder and beginning to scan the detailed schematics the youngest Warehouse agent has drawn up in her messy scrawl. You wait until the magnet that is her presence leaves the room, until the string that connects you to her heart by some invisible force thins out, stretched up the stairs and into her bedroom, to fully relax. When you hear the water come on from somewhere above you, flowing up the pipes in the walls, a modern marvel defying gravity, you feel yourself fully sink into the couch cushions, and allow your mind as well as your body to sink into the peacefulness surrounding your tired self. You may have just spent the last month recuperating, taking more naps than you thought possible, but it does feel so wonderfully delightful to be home.

She comes down twenty minutes later, curls still damp and frizzy from the shower, skin looking pink and scrubbed, cocooned in a sweatshirt and yoga pants, and wearing the fuzzy socks she won't admit to owning. She's positively glowing.

"Feel better?" you ask, looking up at her over the folder.

She nods silently, but taps you on the shoulder. You lean forward obediantly, letting her slide in behind you. There's a moment of shared movement as you work to get situated, but eventually, she pulls one of the throw blankets up over the both of you and you lean back against her in relief. She reaches out one hand blindly and pulls a book off the small table. You hadn't even realized she'd brought it down with her.

"I thought we might read a bit," it's a question.

"Certainly," you wouldn't dream of disagreeing, and you set Claudia's file aside carefully.

She presses a kiss to the skin beneath your ear, before flipping open the cover and beginning, as one must always do, at the beginning. Her lilting voice, quiet and smooth, flows over the prose as though she's already memorized it. Rising and falling in cadence with every emotion, each shifting facet of the story.

You aren't sure how many pages she's flipped through, her fingers skimming over the yellowed pages with care, but you can feel your body growing heavier against hers. She's cradling your head gently with one arm, holding the novel aloft in the other. "You can come in you know," you cut her off suddenly, because his presence has been nagging at you for the past three paragraphs.

Pete sticks his head around the corner, as if to say, 'Who? Me?'

"Stop hovering," you admonish him. "Come in and listen."

"I don't hover," he argues, stepping fully into the living room and wandering over towards the armchair, studying it before sitting as though he'd never really planned on occupying it in the first place. "Myka's the one who hovers. She's practically a helicopter."

"Hey," she protests, but you snuggle closer to her and she relaxes.

"Claudia," you call. "Steven. You both might as well stop pretending to be invisible as well." Myka shifts in surprise. She hadn't realized how large of an audience she's gathered.

They slink in from the the hall, where you're certain they've been seated on the stairs. "How do you do that?" Claudia asks. "It's like super secret spidey skills."

You ignore the pop culture reference. "Sit down," you order. "And be quiet. We're almost to the end." You wait for them to take their seats. You knew they'd come back, unable to stay away for long. When one of your own is injured, in whatever form, it's only natural to want to circle the wagons, to stay close until the danger has passed. And although it has, they aren't ready to admit that the fog has cleared and you have all escaped on the other side relatively unscathed. They need the reassurance. And so do you, if you're being honest. Reassurance that you're actually here, sitting in the living room, wrapped in Myka's arms, listening to her bring a novel to life once more. "Continue, please," you say to your lover sweetly. Lover. She's your lover. Your heart skips not one, but several beats.

She clears her throat, suddenly self-conscious, and retraces her steps up several lines, leading you all back gently into the story. You haven't read this one before. It'd come out in play format only several years after you'd entered the Bronzer, or so Myka had told you. It's for children, but you find yourself fascinated.

"'_Can anything harm us, mother, after the night-lights are lit?'_

'_Nothing, precious,' she said; 'they are the eyes a mother leaves behind her to guard her children.'"_

You have forgotten what tears feel like as they drip slowly down your nose to land silent and salty upon the blankets. When you look over, it is to see that Claudia looks to be on the verge of crying as well. You are not alone.

"_Hitherto he had thought it was some fiend fighting him, but darker suspicions assailed him now. _

'_Pan, who and whar art thou?' he cried huskily._

'_I'm youth. I'm joy," Peter answered at a venture, 'I'm a little bird that has broken out of the egg.'_

_This, of course, was nonsense; but it was proof to the unhappy Hook that Peter did not know in the least who or what he was, which is the very pinnacle of good form."_

Brilliant man, that J.M. Barrie.

"_And thus it will go on, so long as children are gay and innocent.."_

Myka shuts the book softly, and you blink, careful not to dislodge the tears that are quivering just beneath your eyelids. The only light in the room emanates from the small lamp Steve flicked on some time ago. Pete is uncharacteristically still in his chair, and Claudia is leaning against the edge of the sofa, looking half asleep and lost in dreams. You're fingering your locket, trying not to think about little boys who never grew up, and little girls who never got the chance. What a heartbreaking world, this Neverland. You would give nearly anything to see it.

"Time is chasing after all of us," Steve mutters, breaking the stillness.

"Or perhaps we're the ones giving chase," you murmur in response, and when Claudia looks up at you, you give her a tiny smile. Myka has linked your hands beneath the blankets, and you rest your head against her chest. "That was wonderful, love. Thank you."

"Love you," is her whispered response. The words come easily, honestly.

And then the house descends into silence once more. No one moves. No one speaks. The reverberations of make-believe are slow to fade, and echoes of childhoods once pushed into dusty corners of memories are retrieved and replayed as dusk falls in a tiny town in South Dakota, so far from that second star on the right. You are surrounded by these people who are brave and brilliant and bold. Daring and Kind. Adventurous and peaceful. And to share with them this night, full of fairy bells and crocodiles, pirates and mothers' lullabies, is a gift greater than all the thimbles in all the world. For tonight, you feel you might remember how to fly.

"_To live will be an awfully big adventure."_

**Props to JM Barrie for his masterpiece that is Neverland. **


	13. Intimacy

**Intimacy **

**Bering and Wells - Oh darlin', it's a good day when there's lots of B&W to go around. I just can't stop with these two. Pretty sure it's not healthy. At all. **

**Day 13 - Dancing **

"No! Gah! It's _one, _two three. Not, one, _two, _three."

You pull back, unable to contain the bemused expression that breaks out on your face. The younger girl's cheeks are turning red enough to match her hair in frustration.

"Aren't you supposed to be teaching _me _this crap, HG? You're the Victorian one!"

You step on her toes accidentally for what must be the hundredth time in the past thirty minutes, and she throws up her hands in disgust, hitting the pause button on the iPod dock.

"I'm sorry, Claud." You really are. "It's just a dance."

"Just a dance? _Just _a dance?! It's a waltz. It's one of the most beautiful and intimate acts a pair of human beings can possibly be engaged in. I-i-it isn't just a dance," she's spluttering. You'd laugh if you didn't think it would hurt her feelings.

"I never saw the appeal back then, and I must say, I honestly don't see it now. I'm sorry, darling."

There's muffled laughter from the doorway and you both swing 'round.

"Oh, hello, love! Claudia here was just attempting to instruct me in the finer arts of the waltz."

"So I see," she smirks at you, her green eyes the color of fresh grass beneath a summer sun, sky the blue of forever falling today.

"What are you laughing at?" your frustrated teacher asks her. "I'd like to see you try and teach this-this," she gestures to you, "buffoon-"

"Pardon me!"

"-without her killing your feet."

"I resent that word, I'll have you know."

"Buffoon? Would you prefer bull in a china shop?"

"Easy, Claud," Myka soothes, stepping forward. She surveys you, from top to bottom and up again. You meet her studious look with a straightforward grin.

"Care to give it a whirl?" you taunt her.

But when she gets that look on her face, when she sets her jaw, and her eyes go suddenly hard, you think that perhaps this wasn't such a good idea. When Myka sets her mind to something, there is absolutely no stopping her. She's quite possibly the first person you've found who is more stubborn than you. Watching the transformation occur, from sweet, innocent, charming Myka, to fierce, battle-ready Agent Myka Bering, Secret Service, is a bit alarming. You gulp.

She walks, no, stalks, towards you, and your hands suddenly feel clammy, and your lungs less capable of processing oxygen than they did twenty seconds ago, and your heart rate has increased exponentially. Claudia steps back, knowing better than to open her mouth or get involved in this particular...event.

She stands, inches from you, close enough that you can smell her perfume, wafting gently over you. Her eyes still boring into yours, she reaches forward and lifts your left arm, laying it gently over her shoulder. Then she places her right hand on the upper part of your back. You nearly gasp. It feels as though your skin is on fire where she's touching you, but you cannot look away from the flashing green orbs holding you firmly in place. She grasps your other hand steadily in her own, palm to palm.

And then she gives a tug, and you stumble forward until your bodies are pressed together. Even through the layers of clothing separating you, you can feel the outline of her, hard and soft in all the proper places. Your mouth goes dry.

She begins to move, slowly, and you look down at your feet so as not to trip, but, "No," she orders. "Look at me."

Your head comes up immediately, locking onto her face.

The room disappears. Claudia is forgotten. The silence surrounds you. You are moving in unison to some silent beat that is for your ears alone. Well, her ears. Because by the way she is concentrating, you know she is hearing something, something magical and beautiful and that flows in beats of three. But then she smiles softly at you, and you can almost hear it too. Quiet and pure, the strings echo in the empty space around you. You smile in return and nearly fall. Her strong arms catch you before you can lose the rhythm, and you're back in the pattern within three steady heartbeats.

You could be anywhere. And anyone could be near you, the world spinning out of control around you and you wouldn't notice. You have eyes only for her. This woman who is too tall to be considered graceful, who has long gangly limbs and a way of walking that looks half-composed, half-on-edge. This woman who is the most beautiful, controlled creature you have ever seen, not a step out of place. If you had the mental capacity to be both enthralled by her and capable of normal thought, you might feel as though you were floating several inches off of the floor, flying. But instead, all you can do is feel her against you, ethereal and otherworldly. All you can do is hold onto her, attempt to keep her from slipping through your fingers, because the chance that she might turn out to be a mere wisp of smoke and mirrors, a fantasy created by your imagination, is more heart-wrenching than that cracked organ can bear.

When the song comes to an end, the violins fading back behind the curtain she had pulled aside for you, she slows you to a stop, still holding your hand. You find that your oxygen stash has been sorely depleted as apparently she possesses the ability to halt your autonomic nervous system. You take a breath. And then another. And when your face has got a bit more color in it, she smiles at you, slow and soft, like molasses over snow.

Your knees are weak and shaky, and if she wasn't standing in front of you, her arm across your back, you think you might not be able to properly support your own weight. You want to ask her how she does it. How she reaches inside of you and pulls out every single facet of your entire existence and gets you to lay them, naked and messy and jumbled, in a heap at her feet. You want to ask her if it's alright that you give her everything, if it's alright that you love her. Because you do. More than time can allow. You want to ask her if she's afraid, because you are. You're terrified. And not just that she'll ask you to dance again.

But, you don't, because the hand along your spine is reminding you that there are more days than just this one, that there will be nights for fears and dawns for tears, and the long fingers between your own say that there need be only dancing in this moment, nothing more. The glow deep in her emerald eyes says that, yes she loves you and no she isn't afraid. Not right now. Fear has no place in her arms.

You feel your lungs expand and your rib cage open and there are birds escaping from your chest and moonbeams coming from your fingertips and joy, actual joy, emanating from every pore of your being. It is a glorious day to learn to waltz. Claudia was correct, and suddenly you wonder why you didn't see the intimacy in it sooner, the absolute freedom, the absolute love present in each swaying step.

She sees, and she smiles. "There," she murmurs. "Perfect."


	14. Boundless

**Boundless**

**Bering and Wells - 'it's always ourselves we find in the sea' - ee cummings**

**Day 14 - Doing Something Together**

"Do you think it will ever end?" you ask, tracing the lines of sunlight running across her pale skin, the blue veins visible beneath the nearly translucent skin of her wrist, a tangled map leading forever back to her heart.

Her eyes blink open slowly, readjusting to the glare of the spring sky, and she turns her head to look at you, silent, because you've asked her this question before, more than a year ago now, and you know she's remembering. A hotel lobby far away, exhaustion, emptiness, despair. She cocks her head to the side, the same way she did that morning, a gesture you've come to consider the most adorable thing you've ever seen.

"This," you turn on your side, taking her hand and placing it against your chest, so she can feel, feel what her very presence does to you. You look at her from beneath long lashes, suddenly shy, yearning.

She scoots closer to you on the blanket, her mouth curved in a tiny smile, her thumb rubbing soothing patterns across your cheek. She leans forward, pressing her lips to yours, cool and sweet, the hint of strawberries on her tongue, layered beneath salt from the ocean wind. She tastes like spring time, like hope and forgiveness and trust, rebirth. When she pulls away, you feel the loss deep within you, immediately. There is a slight breeze this afternoon; it isn't really spring enough for a picnic yet, but lying beside her, you feel only warmth. The slow burn of satisfaction that comes with recognizing the comfortable solitude which may only exist between two souls living in perfect synchrony, as one.

"No," she murmurs, the word blown smoothly across your skin to wend itself around your neck and down your chest, taking up residence above your heart. She lays back down to look up at the cloudless sky, squinting slightly against the sun. Her head is pillowed on your outstretched arm. "I don't think so."

You sigh, easy and soft, because that is the answer you were hoping for. "Thank goodness," you whisper. "Thank goodness for that." She smirks lazily at you, her eyes already closing, face turned to catch the rays emitted by a star millions of miles away. You watch in awe as she slides slowly into sleep, borne away on a sea breeze and sunbeams, so very at home beneath the blue sky.

You hope she's right. You hope to whatever God is out there that these days will continue in a never-ending stream beyond the horizon, that you will be given the chance to see her slip into dreaming again and again, to try and pinpoint the exact moment where she moves from awake to asleep. To catch her smiles and store them in the gaps in your bones. To search forever for a green that can match the brilliance of her eyes. To study her, to worship her, to argue and fight and disagree, and to make up afterwards. To learn her fears. To hear desires whispered under cover of darkness beneath a fort of blankets, to leave promises between her fingertips and hopes behind her ear and to delight in her, every moment of every day.

Because you know how easy it is to lose your way, to watch the rain erase the map you'd followed so painstakingly. To wake in the morning unsure whether or not you're living in reality or in a nightmare. To lose the part of you that makes you human, to become merely an empty shell. Human beings are so tragically fragile, and you are still not sure if you have glued together all your pieces in their proper places.

But you know that she is both your glue and the one stitching you back together. That she has drawn you a new map and placed the compass in your hand and is guiding you out of the darkness as one might a blind man. And you pray that she is right, that the sun will continue to rise, bringing the dawn on its coattails each day, that the stars will not desist leaving behind their dust upon her skin, that your love will remain, boundless, infinite as the sea and the sky and the waves upon the shore.


	15. Salvation

**Salvation**

**Bering and Wells - Things got a little toasty a little quickly. It's kinda hot in here, so perhaps proceed with caution. Not too much caution. Just, ya know, it's Bering and Wells. They're feisty, those two. **

**Day 15 - Making Out **

"Mmm…I thought you'd gone home," you tilt your head, providing her with better access to your neck.

She runs her hands down along your arms to wrap you in a hug from behind, leaving a trail of delightfully teasing kisses behind your ear. "I. Was. Waiting. For. You." Each word is punctuated with a kiss.

You smirk down at the messy desktop in front of you, the plans for your current project in haphazard piles on the wooden surface. You'd finished inventory for the day and then gotten sucked in; time just slipped away from you. But, "I'm almost done here. Is everyone else gone?"

"Mhmm, it's just us," and the way she whispers it, from deep within her chest causes a shiver to run through you.

"Let me just finish up-" you begin, except she's walked around the chair you're seated in, to stand before you, swaying her hips just slightly, enough so that you cannot tear your eyes away.

"I was thinking," she begins, tickling your arm gently, feather soft so that if you couldn't see her doing it, you might think it was a trick of your imagination, "that maybe I could entice you to be done for the day right now."

"Myka, I-" but you're cut off when she bends forward, catching your lips in her own, silencing your half-hearted protest. You moan into her, your hands coming up of their own accord to wrap around her waist, pulling her forward. She straddles your lap easily, sliding herself onto you in a way that is considered illegal in at least twenty-nine states. "Myka, we're at work," you try, managing to disentangle your mouth from hers to catch a breath.

"Nobody's here," she assures you. "Just us," and then she's kissing you again insistently, her tongue seeking access immediately. You cannot deny her. She is firm against you; her hands have tangled themselves in your hair, holding you in place. You could not escape even if you so desired. There is a pit of fire raging in your stomach, spreading outward until your entire body feels as if it's caught fire, and the heat localized in your core.

There is a split second when you wonder what has brought this on. Myka is the epitome of the professional; she doesn't condone making out at the Warehouse. It's where you work, therefore off limits. That's not to say you haven't tried, but… So, that thought crosses your mind, and is promptly whisked away when her mouth finds the spot, just behind your left ear, which always causes you to seize involuntarily and enter a state of semi-permanent-Myka-induced shock. She's a drug. An extremely strong drug.

You're struggling to stay still, but it's a losing battle and your hips come up of their own volition, moving restlessly, seeking something, anything to give you the release you are so suddenly craving. One hit and you're a goner. You feel her smirk; her lips curving upwards in a languorous smile against your skin, even as she slides one long-fingered hand across your shirt, to push on your thigh, settling you firmly back down into the seat.

You turn your head, reattaching your lips, except this time you do not grant her passive entrance. You fight her, nipping her lip and soothing the burn with a quick swipe of your tongue, tasting her, hot and heavy against you. You want more. You need more. Your hands have found their way beneath the hemline of her blouse to stroke the hardened muscle there, inching their way upwards. But she lets out a light laugh, ringing around the deserted space to echo mockingly in your ears, as she stops their upward descent with her own arm. You whimper.

"Not so fast," she growls, and you swear your entire organ system just did a somersault, and then promptly turned to mush. She removes her arm, and pauses, kissing you only gently, her lips moving in a soft rhythm against your own, as though to ensure you've gotten the message. Your hands remain where they are; exactly two inches below her enticing breasts.

You, apparently, are the only one under such restriction, however, because her palm comes back to rest on your leg and then begins a slow ascent towards your center. She must be able to feel the heat radiating from your core. You're fairly certain the entire temperature of the Warehouse has increased in the last ten minutes because of you. You don't understand how she does it, where this fascinating power she seems to hold over you comes from. She certainly didn't _ask _if it was alright if she took over complete control of your body's physical and hormonal reactions with a few well-placed touches. At least, you don't remember her asking, but everything is a bit hazy at the moment.

"Myka," her name spills broken from your lips, pleading and desperate, with none of your usual brilliance or aplomb. You are fixated on only one thing; the feeling of her touch, light and searing all at once. You are a dying woman trapped in the desert and she is your only hope of salvation. You need her, physically _need _her, more than food or shelter or oxygen.

"Darling," you groan.

"Helena," her whispered response between two shallow breaths is just as desperate. She's begun to move above you, her hips rotating as if under the spell of some unseen force. You place your lips to her neck, finding her pulse point, and you suck gently, and then harder, encouraging the blood to pump through her veins in time to your direction. Your hands have begun to move again, except this time she doesn't seem at all interested in stopping you. You undo the buttons quickly and efficiently with a single deft hand, giving you free access to trace beneath one firm breast, before moving to the other, and then circling around it with a single finger. Thank God she wore a button-up today.

She's still sitting on your lap, and because of that, she is several inches taller than you. You move from her neck, down her chest, tip-toeing your tongue across the ledge formed by her collar bone. You can feel her heart pounding. So wonderfully alive and strong. You dip lower, and-

Crash!

It startles you both. She leaps up from the chair, doing up her shirt quickly, her face suddenly red and flushed. Your chest is heaving as you stare at her, nearly undone, but putting herself back together before your very eyes. "I thought you said everyone was gone," your words are higher than normal, a combination of your alarm and arousal.

"I-I- Th-they were! I mean I thought they were." She's staring off in the direction the noise had emanated from.

There is the sound of metal jangling against metal, and then you can make out the distinct tread of four paws hitting the cement floor. "Trailer," you very nearly giggle as the dog rounds the corner, tail wagging enthusiastically. He has no idea what he's just disrupted.

Myka is glaring at him as though he is not simply a dog. "What are you doing here?" she accuses. He merely looks up at her, asking silently to be petted.

"Darling," you grin, reaching out to take her hand and tug her back towards you. "It's alright."

"But-" she looks to be on the verge of tears, and you would laugh if you aren't feeling nearly as devastated.

"It's probably a good thing we were interrupted," you soothe. "I was about to have my way with you right here," and your tone is suddenly teasing.

"Is that so?" she raises a single eyebrow and the heat is back, pulsating throughout your entire being. "Well, how about you take me home and show me just what you meant by that, Agent Wells," she murmurs, standing suddenly and sashaying away.

"Right behind you, darling," you quip, reaching over to hit the light. "Come along, Trailer," you call, as you follow her fast retreating form. "We've got business to attend to."


	16. Practice

**Practice**

**Bering and Wells - I think I might hear wedding bells, maybe. That might be my imagination. We're changing the rules here, folks. Or rather, our favorite leading ladies are...**

**Day 16 - Getting Married **

"Did you have a wedding fantasy when you were a child?" The hand that is rubbing soothing circles along your arm suddenly ceases, and her eyes blink open.

"I suppose," she draws out, scrunching her forehead in thought. "Did you?" she tilts her head so as to be able to see your face as you ponder the question. Her green eyes are glinting in the moonlight shining through the window.

"No," the word comes quickly. "I was always a bit busy running around getting my hands dirty or cooped up in the attic writing to think much of marriage or playing house. And then, once I was grown up, I didn't much fancy the idea of being at a man's beck and call." You see her smile softly, and you don't tell her that you were always a bit afraid of marriage, of the chains it forged. "And after I had Christina," your voice barely shakes on her name any longer, and although Myka doesn't speak, doesn't move, you feel her urging you on, loving you, "I wasn't exactly pure any longer. I was more of a social pariah. The only men who considered me," the word drips distastefully from your tongue, "were more interested in the money that might accompany such a match. They thought perhaps that my charming brother would be willing to offer a dowry if they would...mmm... _take_ me and my bastard daughter off his hands. Blustering, bumbling fools the lot of them. And old," you groan. "They were all so terribly old. And marrying a woman...well, that was out of the question."

Myka shifts closer, placing her arm across your waist and fitting her head beneath your chin. You lay in silence for a moment, running your fingers gently through her curls. They're mussed from where she's been lying upon the pillow, and you get caught in one of the tangles, pulling through it gently so as not to tug.

You don't ask again, for what she imagined her wedding would one day be. You know she has a fantasy - or had one at least when she was a child - and that it most likely came straight from her books, her stories. She'll tell you if she wants to. So, instead, you ask a different question, one that has been on your mind of late and that you cannot seem to shake.

"Do you _believe _in marriage?"

She thinks about that one as well, considering. She's so thoughtful. So introspective. So blindingly brilliant. You love her.

"Yes," she says at last, riding the word on an exhale of breath. "But, not, I think as an institution."

"Institution?"

"There are so many rules," she explains, and you don't nod so she knows you're still confused. "Marriage i-is hard and challenging and beautiful - when it's true. But, I don't see the difference between a church wedding with everyone and their mother there, a justice of the peace, beneath the trees, or jumping over a broom." You feel her sigh gently. "It's a holy thing. No matter what. As long as the two people love one another." You'd like to stop her, to tell her how much you adore her - love her - in this moment, safe in your bed, holding her in your arms. "And I understand _why _the government might need to know. The benefits and everything, but I'm not sure it's necessary. Putting your name to a piece of paper isn't the only way to make a commitment to love and cherish someone for all of your days."

"But it is something. A promise in writing," you play the devil's advocate, using the importance she places on words against her.

"I know," she said, softly. "It's just that rules aren't always right."

You know she's thinking about certain laws, laws that have existed since before you were bronzed. She's explained it to you, and you've read the news; you've seen the articles and the signs and learned about the fight taking place across the world. The fight for an equality that seems a no-brainer to you.

"Rules don't always make the world better. Sometimes you've got to change them."

"My, my," you murmur fondly, "What an idealist you're turning out to be. Surprises at every turn," but it comes out lovingly and so she reaches up to place a kiss against your cheek.

"Do you think you'll ever get married?"

She shrugs. "I thought maybe...with Sam," and you know that it still hurts her to mention him, even if she has done her forgiving, of him and of herself. No one ever tells you that grief is so never-ending; you can learn to work through it, to climb above it, but it's always there nonetheless, shaping you, changing you from below. "But that was probably just a foolish fancy," she admits. "Midnight dreams."

You don't mention that it's midnight right now, but you find yourself reaching down to slip a hand into the pocket of Myka's sweatpants you 'borrowed' a month ago and have yet to return. The object there feels heavier than it should, and you are hyperaware of its presence. You shouldn't have put it in there while changing that evening, but you'd seen it sitting there, taunting you, so you'd grabbed it. Out of spite mostly. And now it is, as the proverbial saying goes, burning a hole in your pocket.

"Now," she continues, her voice hauntingly quiet in the darkness, "with the Warehouse..." she trails off.

"Everyone ends up either crazy, evil or dead," you finish for her, having heard the oft-quoted line enough to no longer feel embarrassed that at one time or another you yourself might fit into two of those three categories. All three if you count the bronzer as a form of death and reincarnation.

She squeezes her arm around your waist though, as if to say that she knows where your thoughts have gone. You love her.

"Maybe someday," you say suddenly. And immediately regret the words.

"Hmm?" As though she's cleverly managed to forget the conversation you've been having for the past twenty minutes.

"Maybe someday there will be a reason for a wedding. Reason enough that it trumps the Warehouse with all its endless wonders."

She smirks into your skin. "Maybe," but she is disagreeing with you.

"We should practice," you announce, too loudly, and you cringe internally as soon as the words leave your lips. You aren't sure when you became so stupid and idiotic.

"Practice?"

"You know, just in case the need ever does arise. You wouldn't want to embarrass yourself up on the alter. Whatever alter you so choose," you allude to her earlier comment. You wish you'd never been born. You wish someone would simply come along and cut your tongue out of your mouth.

She laughs softly. "Alright. Let's practice."

You'd much rather die come to think of it, let the mattress swallow you up, never look her in the eye again, but it's too late. No going back now. "Alright," you take a deep breath. "So..." This is ridiculous.

"So..." she urges.

"Okay," you turn suddenly to face her, and she sits up on one elbow. "So, we'll do yours first," you tell her. She nods, biting her bottom lip. There is a shaft of light falling softly across her cheek. She is lovely and soft and perfect. "So, do you, Myka Ophelia Bering take me, Helena G. Wells, to be your wife?" She raises one eyebrow at how serious you sound, but you adopt an innocent expression, silly and amused.

"I do," she intone. You nod. "And do you, Helena G. Wells, take me to be your w-wife?" She stumbles over the word a bit, but you pretend not to notice.

"I do," you answer. "I think we kiss now," you murmur and she laughs, a bit too quickly, a bit embarrassedly. You lean forward, pressing your lips to hers, and as you do, you pull your hand out of your pocket, sliding it up along your torso. You fumble a bit, trying to get it in position, but she doesn't notice, and then you find her hand in the blankets blindly. And without pausing, before you lose your nerve, you slide the simple silver band up over one long, delicate finger. It fits. Perfectly. And as she pulls away in surprise you resist the desire to laugh in relief, in delight.

She stares down at her hand unblinkingly.

You're afraid. You've never been more terrified in all your life. But you adopt the bravado that has seen you through so much, "It's like you said, darling." She glances up at you, as though surprised to see you're stilling sitting beside her. You love her. You will continue to love her. You cannot imagine not loving her. You stretch forward to whisper beside her ear, "We mustn't be afraid to change the rules."


	17. Banana Bread

Banana Bread

**Bering and Wells - It's Saturday night, and the Bering and Wells fluff is in full swing. Bring on the apples. I might even be able to handle all the feels without turning into a puddle of goo on the floor. Nope. Just kidding. **

**Day 17 - Baking/Cooking**

"It just won't go up!" she exclaims.

You lift your head from your book to smirk across the room at her.

"Oh, shut up," she snaps, blushing furiously.

"I didn't say a word, darling," you admonish.

"Yeah, but you were thinking it," she mutters, still peering in through the glass of the oven door.

"I don't understand why you're….doing what you're doing," you wave lazily in her direction.

With a huff, she stands up, her hair askew and her face red from bending over. "I just wanted to do something nice for Claudia. It's her birthday tomorrow. And you know banana bread is her favorite."

"Yes, but you don't exactly know how to bake," you point out carefully.

She glares at you, pushing a stray strand off her cheek with a floury finger. She leaves a delightful smudge there. You lick your lips. She doesn't notice, turning back to frown at the oven, her hands cocked on her slim hips.

You shake your head, forcing yourself to refocus on the work spread out across the kitchen table. You don't even know why you try working when she's nearby. It's a lost cause. You find yourself watching her more often than not, putzing around the kitchen, cleaning up the dirty dishes, wiping up the flour spread all across the countertop. You don't mention to her the smear across her cheek. It's much too cute to have it simply wiped away.

She's bending over once more, staring forlornly through the glass. Your eyes get caught by the glint of the lights reflecting in the skinny silver band hanging from a delicate chain around her neck. You're still a bit in awe of the fact that she hadn't taken it off and flushed it down the drain when you placed it on her finger, that she simply kissed you, again, and again, until your lips were numb and your heart was overflowing. She'd put it on the chain the next morning, as you'd both decided it was perhaps a bit dangerous to flaunt this new…step…in your relationship. No one needed to know. Not yet at least.

But you can't help thinking of her as your wife. Your wife. A word you never thought you'd consider in relation to yourself. It's breaking nearly every rule you'd ever set for yourself. And it may not be legal, not technically, but then again you can't really expect to be given a marriage license when you don't actually exist in this century. The Warehouse could give you a fake persona, or just make you Emily Lake to the outside world, but you prefer it this way, your way. She looks over suddenly, as though she can hear your thoughts vibrating out from your brain, and gives you a soft smile.

"Are you laughing at me?" she asks.

"Wouldn't dream of it, darling," you assure her.

"Yo, peeps!" Claudia skids into the kitchen. "Mmm! Is that banana bread, my snoz smells?"

"Maybe," you answer, Myka still preoccupied with her less than perfect loaf. "It has yet to be determined."

Claudia laughs, and turns to your wif- to Myka. Except the smile is wiped off her face faster than the speed of light, and she gasps, "What. Is. That?" She points a shaking finger, and as you follow her line of sight, you feel your stomach shrink suddenly.

Myka glances up and then down, grabbing the ring hanging out of her shirt, in one hand and tucking it away. "What's what?" she asks, standing quickly.

"Umm. No. I may not be Sherlock Holmes, but I ain't no idiot," Claudia intones, jumping across the room to stand directly in front of the brunette. Myka takes a cautionary step back.

"What, Claud?" she asks once more, feigning innocence.

"Dude. Is this a-a ring!?" she's pulled out the chain and is holding the tiny piece of jewelry reverently in her hand.

"Just an old heirloom," Myka tries, but anyone could tell she's lying. You cover a smile behind your hand.

"Nuh-uh. No way, José," the younger agent denies. "I would remember bling like this."

"Claudia!" Myka grabs the ring away, tucking it back beneath her shirt.

You stand, crossing to your lover's side and sliding your hand into her own. "I believe the jig is up, my sweet," you murmur.

"I knew it!" the redhead crows, her eyes flickering between the two of you, a mischievous smirk on her young face.

"Knew what?" Myka groans.

"That you two were like, serious-_serious_," Claudia intones…seriously.

"Claud, I think Trailer ate my - Oh. Hey guys. What's up?" Pete asks, coming to a stop in the doorway. You must make a fairly silly picture. You and Myka, backed into a corner by a fiery, excited looking Claudia Donovan.

"Nothing!" Myka exclaims, looking positively petrified. Perhaps it would have been better to simply come clean with everyone immediately. You do so hate to see her in such an uncomfortable state.

But at the same time, Claudia turns to say, "_You _totally owe me twenty bucks!"

You raise your eyebrows in surprise.

"Aww, man!" Peter drags himself towards a chair and flops down in it, digging in his pocket and pulling out a rumpled bill which Claudia marches over to collect smugly. "A ring?" he asks sadly.

"A ring!" the victor states triumphantly. "Totally called it."

"But, how did you know?" you jump in, suspicious of this strange little bet it seems they've got going.

"You were acting spectacularly suspicious last month," Claudia explains casually. "When we were in Nashville. And then you snuck off that one afternoon and came back looking all pleased with yourself and super jittery at the same time. Doesn't take a genius to put two and two together when Mykes comes down wearing the biggest grin possible without her face splitting open last Thursday morning."

"And you guys haven't been able to keep your hands off each other," Pete interjects, sniffing a cookie sitting on the plate in the middle of the table carefully before popping it into his mouth.

"Total PDA," Claudia concurs.

You look over your shoulder to find Myka shrugging in embarrassment. You lean back against her, stage whispering, "I think they're on to us, love."

She snorts. "Excellent."

"It's not like we care or anything," Claudia is quick to amend. "The two of you have been through enough pain and heartache to last fifteen lifetimes."

"She's got a point," Pete agrees, crumbs spraying everywhere.

"Well, thanks, guys," Myka says softly.

"Yes, thank you," you murmur as well, placing a soft kiss on the taller woman's cheek, before reaching up with one finger to wipe away the smudge of flour. "Just had a little something," you explain, grinning at her. She flushes and you kiss her again. "You're adorable," this is a real whisper, for her ears alone.

"So, about that bread," Claudia states, bringing you back to the most important topic of the afternoon.

"Oh!" Myka throws up her hands and spins away from you, looking suddenly frantic. Pete lets out a bolt of laughter, Claudia grins and sidles over to take the chair next to the man, while you retake your own seat at the table, glancing fondly towards the woman who wears your ring.

You love her. You love her because she makes horrible bread and flushes the most beautiful shade of pink when she's embarrassed. You love her because she bakes for her family for their birthdays, and because she smiles at you like she knows all of your secrets and dark places, and adores you anyway. You love her because she looks like a happy five year old when she gets flour on her face. Because she is beautiful and brilliant and honest and kind. You love her, and you'll continue to love her even if this banana bread comes out of the oven burned and tasting more like a piece of charcoal than anything else. You can't help loving her. She makes it the easiest thing you've ever done.


	18. Cult Fiction

Cult Fiction

**Bering and Wells - This one came out kinda weird, and it doesn't exactly stand alone. So hopefully the next one will clear up any lingering confusion, because I'm still a bit confused, too, to be honest. This ship is seriously sailing itself. The wind blows where the wind blows and HG Wells is my hero.**

**Day 18 - Doing Something Hot (maybe not **_**that **_**kind of hot though...)**

"_Get the children and get out," you order her, not taking your eyes from the man holding the gun. _

"_Helena, I'm not leaving you," she insists. "I'm not letting you be the noble one here."_

"_Myka," you growl, your hands raised to show the person across from you that you are unarmed. "We are not having this discussion."_

_There is the sound of a muffled cry, from the child pressed into your lover's waist, and you growl again. _

"_Helena."_

"_Myka."_

"_I love you," ever the practical one. Ever the strong one. And then you hear three sets of footsteps scuffing slowly out of the kitchen, back down the hall, and Myka's low, reassuring murmur, fading with them. _

_You ache for her immediately, feeling empty and alone. "Alright, Mr. Richardson, it's just you and I. How about you put the gun down and we can talk about this." _

Thursday morning:

"Pack your bags," Artie announces, when the two of you enter the Warehouse office via the umbilicus, dropping hands as you do so.

"Where are we going?" Myka asks.

"California. San Francisco to be exact," Claudia responds from her place at the computer terminal.

"There's been a rash of suicides," Arthur explains when you both look to him for more information. "Families with a mother, father and two kids. Always a boy and a girl."

"Mom and kids killed by cyanide," Claudia jumps in.

"And the fathers?"

"Self-inflicted gun shot wound to the head."

"There have been three families so far," Claudia murmurs, her voice low. You shoot her what you hope is a comforting look. It's hard to remember at times how young she still is.

"And so we got a ping?" Myka's voice is somber.

Artie nods. "The local law enforcement are stumped. They called in the FBI after the second suicides. All of the families had at least one child at the same elementary school. It sounds almost like a cult thing," he mutters, mostly to himself, "like-"

"Peoples Temple," your wife finishes for him. You look blankly between the three other agents in the room. Their faces are pale and drawn.

"Peoples Temple?" you repeat.

Myka turns to you, lacing her fingers through yours even though Artie is watching, and that, more than anything, tells you how serious this case is going to be. "Peoples Temple." She takes a deep breath. "Founded by Jim Jones in the mid-1950s in Indiana, and which eventually moved it's headquarters out to San Francisco in California. Jones was a student of Marxist teachings," and you nod because you read Marx the previous month, "and an atheist, but he acted as the founding father of a church in order to discount the Bible's teachings from a pulpit of his own." You squeeze her hand. "In 1978, 900 members of the Temple committed mass suicide in Jonestown, Guyana. Most, including at least 300 children died via cyanide poisoning, and Jones, well, h-he shot himself."

"It was the largest mass suicide of a cult following in recorded history," Arthur's voice comes out low and harsh from across the room.

You shouldn't feel surprised. You are more than aware of the atrocities mankind has been involved in over the centuries. But this, the thought of hundreds of people taking their own lives because of the teachings of a man they looked up to, revered, most likely viewed as some type of God, well, you feel suddenly as if you're about to be sick.

_The smell of gas is filling the room, invading your nostrils, causing you to gag and gasp for air. Your head feels light, your body, detached. _

_The man is shaking, sweat dripping down his high forward. The gun is pointing at you, and in his other hand is a book, tattered and worn, but you know it's the artifact._

"_Please," you plead, taking a slow step forward. "You don't want to do this." You pray to the Fates that Myka has done as you'd asked, that she's taken the children and gotten out. Gotten to safety. _

Friday Morning:

There is another killing while you're en route to the coast. A boy of seven, his little sister, only four, their mother and father. Only this time, the father turned the gas on, and the spark from the gun caused the entire house to go up in flames. They still weren't sure exactly which body was which. Only dental records would enable them to make a complete match.

You study the burned out shell that is the only remnant of a once happy family's home. "Nothing escaped unscathed."

She shakes her head beside you. "Something must have. The artifact. There has to be a way it's changing hands."

"Or perhaps it's just a lingering aftershock," but you reject the idea as soon as you mention it. There has to be something physical, something you can drop in your purple goo or toss in one of the silver bags and watch as the sparks signifying 20 lost lives fizzle and pop in protest.

"I'll go around back," she tells you, squeezing your forearm gently before ducking beneath the yellow caution tape. You watch her disappear from sight around the corner, before turning back to continue your study.

"_M-my wife," he says hoarsely. _

_You grimace. You'd been too late to stop the woman, bursting through the door and watching in horror as she raised the glass of harmless looking fruit punch to her lips, draining it one gulp. Myka had dashed across the room, however, in time to swipe the twin glasses out of the children's hands. Ethan, 3. Cora, 5. You'd memorized their faces from the file clutched tightly in your hand while Myka drove, weaving in and out of traffic, breaking all of the laws of proper driving. Chubby cheeks, still babies really. Matching green eyes. Brown hair. Curly. You'd seen her in both of them, your Christina. And you hadn't felt able to breathe until Myka had gathered them both to her, held tightly against her. _

"_No!" their mother had screamed, throwing herself forward. "They have to drink. They have to!" _

_But your wife had shaken her off, her only thought for the children, and picked them up, one in each arm, even as they beat at her with tiny fists, calling for their mother, and she'd carried them out into the hall. You don't have the nitrite necessary to reverse the effects of the poison. You could do nothing, but watch the mother, Janet Richardson, you remind yourself to say her name, die. _

"_I'm sorry," you tell the man before you, but his face goes calm suddenly, relieved, and once more you want to be sick. _

Sunday afternoon:

"That's it!" she exclaims, pointing at the screen.

You peer closer. So far there has been no headway, but also no new killings. You have been examining every potential lead. You'd scoured the elementary school the day before. Walnut Park Elementary. All four of the oldest children had been in attendance. Mike in third grade. Elly in fifth. Justin in fourth. And Max in second. But you hadn't found anything that looked even remotely like an artifact.

"See?" she asks excitedly.

You're watching footage from a bus security camera, and there! Yes, you see it. Young Justin, waiting in line for the bus, and a man walking past, perhaps a father, dropping something in his book bag.

"And here!" she exclaims, popping in a different tape, a different bus, a different day, but the same man, dropping the same item into Elly's bag, hanging open from her shoulder while she bounces in place.

"Is that..." you lean closer, "a copy of Marx's _Communist Manifesto_?"

You feel her exhale on the back of your neck. "Shit."

You're inclined to agree.

"_Daddy!" the piercing scream echoes through the house, and you turn only just managing to catch the tiny body hurtling through space. You don't have time to wonder where she's come from. Why she isn't with Myka. Her father is no longer listening, he does not hear his daughter's cries as he brings his hand slowly up, placing the barrel of the gun against his temple. You hold the small human tightly to your chest, making sure she can't see. _

"_Mr. Richardson," you plead. There is not enough time to make it out, not enough time to escape. If you could only get the book. _

"_It's best this way," the man explains, talking as if to himself, to an empty room. "To escape the cruelty of an inhumane world."_

Monday:

You cannot shut down the school; you don't exactly have the power. But you and Myka go just as the final bell is ringing, having introduced yourself to the principle and gotten permission, after Myka had flashed her badge and explained, in the white lie way necessary as an agent of the Warehouse, what or who you were looking for. You catch a glimpse out of the corner of your eye: a man wearing jeans and a white t-shirt, and although the footage from the bus camera was grainy, you know it's him.

But you don't know into which bag he's slipped the item. You are racked with indecision needing to give chase, needing to tear apart the bags of thirty small children until you find the _Manifesto_. Until Myka catches your eye across the milling bodies of hundreds of kids, all yelling and laughing in excitement at the close of another school day. You point in the general direction of the bus he was near, and when she nods, her face a mask of determination, you take off in the direction you saw him disappear.

"Stop!" You call out. You rush around the corner only to find a long line of cars in the parking lot, waiting to pick up their children from school, and no sign of your mystery man. "Dammit," you mutter, nearly stamping your foot in frustration. A mother shoots you an angry glare, but you ignore her.

"Any luck?" she asks, out of breath from behind you.

"No," you turn. "You?"

"The bus left," you feel your face fall. "But the principal will have a roster. We can get the information of all the students, have Claudia run their names. See which ones fit the profile."

"And then just go around knocking on doors?" You are without the aid of the local police and FBI. They'd declined your offer of assistance, and even the nudge of Mrs. Frederic hadn't been enough to sway them. A bit of an oddity really, but it appeared you were on this one solo.

She shrugs. "What else can we do?"

"You're right," you sigh, rubbing a hand down your tired face. "Let's go."

"_Helena!" you hear her voice, and you want to shout, to yell at her to get out. To run. But, she is reaching for you, a scared boy wrapped around her like a spider monkey, and so you turn instead, even as the echo of the bullet reverberates through the room, and the whoosh of gas igniting from a single solitary spark makes its way over you like a wave. You pull her into your arms as if in slow motion, moving through water rather than air, the small children pressed between the two of you. And you pull them down with you to the floor, huddling above them, as the roar of fire fills your ears, and heat hits your cheeks, and you think that you should feel pain, agonizing pain, but all you feel is calm. _

It's four hours later before you pull up to the last and final house. No one had answered when you'd phoned, but the lights are on. You're within the kill time now. Each family had died between 6 and 8 pm. You feel jittery, your knee jumping up and down in time to your heartbeat.

"Well, let's go then," you mutter, peering out of the window at the average enough looking tri-level.

She turns to you, and kisses your cheek gently. "Last one."

"Last one," you reply.

"I love you."

"I love you, too, darling." More than words can ever say.

She opens her door, and you do the same. "Snag it, bag it, and tag it."

"Easy as pie," you joke, as she rounds the car to stand beside you.

"Here we go," and she leads the way up the walkway.

No one answers the door bell. But you can smell the gas, even from here. So you kick it open, and lead the way, Tesla drawn and at the ready. The kitchen is empty. The living room. Upstairs, softly, so softly. And there they are. The first bedroom. A little girl's room, full of stuffed animals and with a ballerina bedspread. And you're too late to save the mother, but Myka grabs the children and you're making your way back downstairs when you see him, in the kitchen now, gun at the ready. And your heart leaps into your throat and you suddenly feel old, older than you've ever been, even after a century in the bronze. And you feel tired as you lay your Tesla upon the stair and approach softly. And you feel the chaos of the universe, the chaos that the entire world is trending towards, come to a screeching halt to rest at your feet. You glance at Myka once, her face beautiful and frightened and angry. You love her. And you tell her so, silently. Before you step carefully into the kitchen, feeling her presence, solid at your back.

"Mr. Richardson. Hello. My name is Helena, Helena Wells."

_The world is ending and you cling to her, to the girl held in your arms, to the boy, no more than a toddler, clutched to your wife's chest, and you have never felt so at peace. You lock your eyes onto her face, for a moment you think you smell apples, and then you disappear in a sea of peaceful green even as the world explodes in red around you. _


	19. Invincible

**Invincible**

**Bering and Wells - My brain is exploding. That is all.**

**Day 19 - Doing Something Ridiculous**

You don't let go of her hand, the entire way to hospital. Even as the paramedic insists on checking your vitals, as well as hers, you do not let go. You are more than confused. You are still breathing. It doesn't make any sense.

Minor burns across your back, nothing too major. The children have burns on their hands and arms where they were wrapped around each one of your necks, and are suffering from minor smoke inhalation. They'd been choking on the leftovers of the gas explosion as you tripped and stumbled your way out of the rubble after her. She was unscathed, completely. And you don't understand how.

They ask for your name. You lie. "Emily Lake."

And the children's names. "Cora," she tells them. "Ethan." But she follows as they take the children away to treat their burns, not letting them out of her sight. And you trail along like a lost puppy. "I'm with the Secret Service," she argues when a nurse attempts to close the door on her. And she glares, and she gets her way.

They've given the children morphine, putting them to sleep. Their burns aren't too bad once they've been bandaged up. But their tiny faces are smudged with soot, the clean lines of tear tracks making their way down their cheeks. Myka presses a kiss to her index finger and lays it softly against the dimple in Ethan's face, and then Cora's forehead. You watch as if from a distance, still connected to her, but only just.

"Come on," she urges, leading you out of the room, to sit on the cold, hard plastic of the chairs in the hall.

You feel nothing like yourself as you turn to stare at her and she pushes a lock of hair back from your face.

"I think the fire probably took care of the artifact. At least, I hope so," she purses her lips in thought, glancing every fourteen seconds back towards the door leading to the children. They are safe. So are you. So is she. Except she shouldn't be. "We'll have to see if Claudia can make some kind of positive ID on that guy, figure out how he was getting the book to each of the families." Local law enforcement are bustling nearby, just as they were at the scene. The FBI have come, demanding a statement, but Myka had waved them away, and surprisingly they'd gone. For now.

"Myka-" she shushes you with a kiss.

"We're fine. _They're _fine." She means the children. But you've escaped death yet again and it doesn't seem right. One of these days your luck is going to run out. Endless wonder is not endless. Nothing is infinite.

"What happened?" you ask hoarsely, because you feel as though you just escaped a war zone and she still looks like an angel.

"I-I don't know," she admits.

"I, however, might." You both jump. "May I?" and without waiting for a reply, Mrs. Frederic steps forward, pulling the chain out from beneath Myka's shirt and studying the item attached to it. Myka blanches. "As I suspected," she peers intimidatingly over her glasses. "You both know of the Phoenix, of course."

Myka nods, and you follow suit.

"It saved Arthur once upon a time," she continues.

"But that's in the Warehouse," Myka protests.

"The principle is the same," the Caretaker waves her away, still staring at the silver ring hanging from the chain. She doesn't touch it however, simply watches it sway, as though mesmerized. "Have you ever witnessed an artifact being born, Agents?" she asks softly.

"But, how...?" your lover looks from the ring to the woman and back.

"That would be mere speculation on my part," Mrs. Frederic intones. "However, I would assume it would have something to do with the round-a-bout journey you and Ms. Wells here have been on over the past several years. Devotion. Strength. True love," she stares piercingly at you, but you meet her eye fiercely in return. You are not afraid of her. "Powerful, all. Capable of extraordinary feats. It would explain why Agent Wells here sustained some minor injuries while you escaped unscathed. She gave you this, I presume?" She indicates the band and Myka nods.

"But the children," you object, feeling stronger by the minute. "They were protected as well."

"That is somewhat interesting. But perhaps, if it was feeding off of you, Agent Bering, than that would indicate that you had already transferred a vast amount of affection their way."

You stare at Myka, at the way she straightens her spine at the somewhat accusatory tone in the ageless woman's voice, at the flush making it's way up from her chest. Mrs. Frederic is right, you know, because you know the woman you love better than you know yourself.

"They were hurt though. Worse than Helena," she fights back, but she is mostly trying to convince herself.

Your Myka. Who is strong and independent and does not let her guard down for just anyone. You should have known. You should have seen it in the way she held the children close to her, their tiny bodies pressed to hers so they would not have to see their mother succumb to cyanide poisoning. You should have seen it in the kitchen, as your agent made sure to keep the children behind herself in relation to the man under the sway of the artifact. You should have known as soon as Cora threw herself against you trying to reach her father, with Myka hot on her tail. But you were a bit preoccupied trying to talk down a lunatic, trying to keep her safe. So you see it now. You recognize it in her. And, much to your chagrin, in yourself. The fact that you weren't just thinking about a beautiful woman with bright green eyes, but also about two tiny humans, innocent and pure and perfect. She was not the only one you had been working to protect back in that house.

Mrs. Frederic gives a somewhat uncharacteristically undignified shrug. "You had only just met them after all," she rebuts.

"The Phoenix causes someone else to die though," Myka voices the issue you'd been rolling around in your brain as well.

"And the phoenix was forged in somewhat different circumstances." You do not want to know what exactly those circumstances were. "Each artifact is unique in its own creation. And not all must be snagged, bagged, and tagged, as Arthur likes to call it. Surely you must have realized that by now, Agent Bering," she looks down her nose at the brunette, who nods finally.

"The ring?" you ask.

"Is not harmful." she answers. "But it is powerful, I would imagine. Not to be trifled with."

Myka peers once more at the wooden door, behind which are two sleeping children. You can practically hear the gears in her brain whirring.

Suddenly the Farnsworth in your pocket is vibrating insistently.

"Claudia," you say somewhat dumbly.

"Still breathing? Good!" she sounds relieved, peering anxiously at you and then at Myka over your shoulder. "They got the guy. The FBI did. Said he was Joe Jones' youngest son, a kid no one even knew existed. But they got him." You don't ask how. Or where he got his father's copy of the _Manifesto. _Or why he was murdering innocent families. These are all pieces that can be filled in later.

"And yes," Mrs. Frederic answers Myka's earlier question, "the artifact was destroyed by the fire."

You feel her relax infinitesimally next to you, but she still hasn't pulled her gaze away from the door.

"Are the kids okay?" Claudia asks.

"They are," you affirm. "A bit banged up, but they'll be fine."

"They have no family," Mrs. Frederic says suddenly. "They will enter the foster care system." You don't question how she is already privy to this information.

Claudia's face goes suddenly dark. And you remember that she has first hand experience with such a life. "Not all such homes are bad," you attempt to reassure her.

"The good ones are few and far between," she mutters.

"We're not going to just leave them, Claud," Myka speaks from beside you, suddenly. You feel your heart miss several beats, because you know, even as Claudia signs off and you flip the lid closed and slip it back into your pocket, what is coming next.

Myka is looking at you, her hand soft on your arm, pleading, reassuring. "Helena," she murmurs, "we can't just leave them."

You love her, but, "We can't take them with us, Myka." You are harsher than you mean to be. Yet you cannot stop, because this is not a discussion you are willing to have, not a possibility you think you can consider. "The Warehouse is no place for children." You know the words 'endless wonder' are on the tip of her tongue. "We spend more time on the road, facing death or madness than we do merely living. It's too dangerous," but you aren't sure if you mean for them or for you. Because if something were to happen to the children in that room, you already know it would break you.

She looks at the Caretaker, still studying you both silently. Mrs. Frederic cocks her head to the side, raising one eyebrow. "This is a highly unusual case. The pair of you are a highly unusual case. And the rules have been stretched already."

"So, change them," she challenges.

Your field of vision has narrowed to a mere pinprick and you are finding breathing a bit more challenging than usual. "I can't," you gasp. "Myka, please. I can't."

Her voice is in your ear, low and soothing. "We'd keep them safe, Helena. We would."

"I can't."

"_I'll _keep them safe. And I'll keep you safe. It won't be the same."

"But I can't let her go," you curl up in the hard chair and Myka is pulling you into her lap, her fingers soft against the back of your neck.

"It's not letting her go, love."

"What if something happens to them -"

"It won't," and already you can feel her shifting, transforming into a woman strengthened by the love only a child can illicit. But she doesn't know, can't understand. It would shatter her. And you don't want that. You never want her to feel what you have felt. The agony of it all.

"Helena," she whispers into your hair. You love her. You do. And you can feel that the thread connecting your hearts has been split, two thin pieces having been thrown out into the abyss to come to rest against the smaller organs pumping in the next room. You love her. And you love them. Already. And if you attempt to keep them from her, she will stop loving you, she will snap that string in half and leave you aching behind her. You love her. You cannot lose her.

You nod against her chest, the tears flowing fast and free down your cheeks.

"I'll arrange it," and then Mrs. Frederic is gone. Gone to face the regents and the social work system. Gone to ensure that you and Myka can bring two lost and lonely, parentless children back to a tiny town in South Dakota. Gone to make it possible for you to turn your lives upside-down and inside-out.

You are alone with the woman that you love and the grief for a child you lost a hundred years ago pours out of you, fear and terror for two children you barely know already filling you up, making the world seem scary and fiercesome. But her voice in your ear, full of promises and castles in the sky, the hope she rubs into your back with her strong hand, the memory of a child's arms, tiny and trusting about your neck, tears you wanted nothing more than to erase before they'd even fallen come back to you.

This is an impromptu, hasty, rash decision. Completely unlike Myka. She is the sensible one. And saying you love a child is not the same as saying you would be willing to raise it. But it is the same. For her it equates to much the same. Children's bodies are small and fragile against the onslaught of the world. But perhaps together, you will be strong enough to keep them safe.

You cry because you are confused and terrified and exhausted. Because you love a woman who should despise you. And you love two children you only just met, who are more alone in the world than you have ever truly been. You cry in her arms until you cannot keep your eyes open and she rocks you to sleep. As the babies who have only just lost their mother and father, but are already loved honestly and unequivocally by the most wonderful woman in the world, sleep peacefully in the next room. It will not be easy. They might not trust you. They might not like you even. Not for a long time. But they will adore her, as you do.

It will be a long way to healing for them, as it has been a long road to redemption for you, but perhaps, you think before you are swirled away by the soothing melody of her voice, you are finally almost there, and perhaps, you can lead them through the darkness and back into the light. As long as she is by your side, you feel very nearly invincible. You thought your love had gone away, buried with a perfect girl with long brown curls and intelligent black eyes. But it's coming back to you, filling you up, different and new, but love all the same. You can love them, because she is here, loving you.


	20. Utterly Perfect

**Utterly Perfect**

**Bering and Wells - Fluffity Fluffity Fluff Fluff. Mhmmmmm.**

**Day 20 - Ice Cream**

"Who wants ice cream?" Peter's excited voice makes its way to you from the kitchen.

"I do! I do!" Tiny voices chime in immediately.

The screen door closes with a screeching noise from behind you. You recognize her distinct tread, and your lips curve up into a smile even as she walks down the three steps and settles on the stair beside you, looping her fingers through yours as though she's been doing it for all eternity.

You smile at her, then press a kiss to the top of her curls as she lays her head upon yours with a tired sigh. "Well, they're settling in nicely," you state, your words disappearing into the dusk that is settling easily over the town.

"I want vanilla!" comes a plaintive cry from inside the house.

"Alright. Alright," you hear from a flustered Pete.

You feel her nod. "Are we doing the right thing?" she asks after a moment.

You bite your lip, peering out across the darkening lawn. You've always loved the B&B at this time of day, three minutes past daylight, fourteen until nightfall. It's always felt the most like home as the sun sinks beneath the horizon, and the shadows between light and dark become long and all-encompassing. "I think so," you tell her, because you hope so. And hope, although not something you are too familiar with, seems like a good enough lifeline these days.

"They still have nightmares," she points out unhappily.

"And they will. For a long while." You've discussed this point before.

"But they love Pete."

"Of course they do, darling. He's a kid at heart really."

"And Claudia and Steve."

"Mhmm."

"I even saw Artie giving them twizzlers last night after dinner. Sneaking them."

You laugh lightly. Yes, even Arthur has warmed to the children. But then again, who wouldn't?

"They are wonderful," she murmurs.

"They are," you agree simply.

"Do you think-" she breaks off. "I know it might be selfish of me - they've been through so much - but, do you think it's alright t-to want them to love me?" She lifts her head and searches your face. She's asking for so much more than a simple yes or no. She loves them already. Unconditionally. But, you know that she still feels guilty. You couldn't save their parents. You tried and you failed. And you often wake in the middle of the night to the sound of a single gunshot and the whoosh of gas catching fire, panting for air, unable to rest until you've gotten carefully out of bed so as not to wake her, and tiptoed down the hall, to push open the door hiding two small, perfect specimens, fast asleep in Neverland, safe and sound. You know her guilt. You understand what she is asking.

"I think," you pause, running a finger down her cheek in a sweet caress, "that they already do love you, darling. It would be impossible to resist your charms."

"But-"

"Shh," you whisper. "And I think that yes, it is alright to want to be their mother," she looks shyly down at her lap, embarrassed. "You aren't attempting to replace anyone," you remind her. "But if you love them, with as much as I know you are capable of, someday, in the not too far distant future, they will look at you as if you put the stars up in the skies."

She blushes. "And you, too," she whispers. "They already adore you."

You tap your thumb against her cheek before pulling away. You're not sure how to respond. Because you, too, would like nothing more than to hear Cora refer to you as mummy, or Ethan to call you mama in his sleep. Even if that will never be, and she will continue to be Myka and you, HG. H, for short, as the three year old has a hard enough time forming normal speech as it is. Even then, the feeling you get when you carry a tired body to bed, and tuck it beneath the covers, overwhelms you. You would die for them. Without a second thought. You would pluck an entire field of sunflowers if they asked it of you. You would bring them the moon.

But at the same time, you have tried to hold yourself somewhat aloof from it all. It is hard. Astoundingly hard. And you miss her. With every moment and every chubby cheeked smile and innocent, wide-eyed question. These children are not the same; they have their own quirks and intelligences and airs of wonderment about them. They are mischievous and polite and darling, each in their own unique way. But you ache for her nonetheless.

She knows. Without speaking, she understands where your mind has tripped off to. A kiss on your cheek and a squeeze of your fingertips tells you everything you need to know. She is patient. She will not rush things. She is giving you all the time you require. You are so grateful for her.

"Mykes! H! Look what Pete gave us!" And suddenly there are rambunctious footsteps rushing down the hall and the door is being pushed open, only to swing back on its hinges loudly. You manage to catch the helter-skelter rush of a tiny body before she can go flying off the steps and headfirst into the lawn, spraying ice cream everywhere.

"Let's see," you tickle her, delighting in her giggles. "Ice cream! Oh my goodness!"

Myka leans forward to peer into the bowl, "You'll never get to sleep tonight, munchkin," she sighs over-dramatically.

Cora lifts the spoon in her sticky fist and takes a giant bite. "Delicious," she proclaims.

"And where's your brother?" Myka asks, but just then Ethan comes tumbling out the door, his only bowl clenched tightly in a small hand.

"Ice cream!" he exclaims, rushing to show your wife and plopping himself down beside her.

"And here's some for the ladies," Pete announces, appearing with two bowls balanced on one arm, his own already half-eaten.

You reach laughingly for yours, batting Myka's hand away as grabs for hers. "Vanilla," she sighs.

"Pardon me. Vanilla is the best flavor," you attest. "Right, Cora?" and the little girl nods.

"Well, E, and I over here like chocolate, don't we buddy?" she knocks the boy's shoulder gently, and they give one another matching grins.

"Sorry, Mykes. We were all out," Pete apologizes.

"Oh no," she protests. "Thanks so much, Pete," she shoots him a grateful smile. For the ice cream. For giving the two of you a minute of peaceful solitude out on the back porch. He smirks at her.

"So, the nuggets and I," Peter indicates the children. "Were thinking we should do movie night. Anybody up for a little _Finding Nemo,_" he waggles his eyebrows.

Myka bites her lip, glancing at her watch. "I don't know," she looks at you.

"Oh, go on then," you encourage. "Why not?" The kids haven't started school yet. You wanted to let them get acclimated to life at the B&B, to life with a whole new set of crazy adults and wild family members and a brand new state before you set them free in a strange school environment. It's a slow process, but it's moving along. And so they haven't any reason to be up early in the morning.

"Movie night it is then," she proclaims and a rousing cheer goes up around the porch. "But after we finish ice cream, it's pjs and brushed teeth _first._"

You lean against her, eating your treat slowly, savoring in its sweetness. Cora is sitting beside you, and Ethan next to Myka. Pete has stretched out on the grass. The children are both smiling, looking happy and pleased with themselves that they've managed to convince the adults via mind control to let them have dessert _and _stay up late. And your wife is positively radiant, glowing as only a new mother can.

She is their mother. Adoptive, yes, but no less protective, no less loving for it. And even if it takes months, years, you know these children will love her, will come to her for advice, will cry on her shoulder, and roll their eyes sarcastically at the silly things she says. They will want to rebel against the rules she imposes, and they will plead for her to just try and see it from their all-knowing teenager points of view. You can see it. The future. Bright and wondrous before her.

And you can very nearly see yourself by her side. A bit hazy, indistinct, but growing more present with every passing moment. You look around once more. You add Claudia and Steve, Arthur, even Dr. Caulder. This is your family now. And although you could never have imagined such a bunch, such a crazy, impossible group, you love them all an agonizing amount. You never could have imagined two small children with brown curls and green eyes. You never could have imagined a woman who has memorized Shakespeare and learned how to read and translate your entire soul, your very being. You could not have imagined how wonderful it would be, how glorious, how absolutely right it would feel. You love them. With a searing fire in your stomach and the throbbing, pulsating organ in your chest. You could not have imagined in all your wildest fancies something so wondrous as them, corporeal and real, human and flawed, glorious, and utterly, utterly perfect.


	21. It Wasn't

**It Wasn't**

**Bering and Wells - Sing me something sweet to get me by. **

**Day 21 - Doing Something Sweet **

You press a soft kiss to a small forehead, pulling up the blanket and tucking it beneath her chin. You study her sleeping face, the light from the hall laying a band of warm illumination across her cheek. "Sweet dreams, darling girl." Without speaking, you and Myka switch places. You approach the second bed in the room, the second sleeping occupant. "Sleep well, my love," you murmur to him, kissing the dimple in his left cheek.

She is already waiting just outside the door. You turn as you reach her to survey the peaceful sight once more. Both children fell asleep almost as soon as their tired heads hit their pillows, exhausted from a day playing with Uncle Pete and Aunt Claudia. They are gone, off into dream worlds you are not privy to, somewhere with dragons and magical faeries, and hot air balloons, and forests full of wonder and delight. Far away lands adults can only vaguely remember in that half-real, hazy state between awake and dreaming. But they have slipped into that land easily, without fuss or bother, their tiny minds so open to imagination, so quick to accept fantasy as reality.

Her arms snake around your waist and she rests her chin upon your shoulder. You lean back into her easy embrace, giving a grateful sigh for her strong hold.

"I could watch them sleep forever," you admit.

"Mmm," she agrees. "Me, too." Silence descends, laying itself over you as a warm blanket on a November night when you sleep with the window cracked because the air smells crisp with undertones of snow. You watch two small chests rise and fall in the mismatched rhythm of deep slumber. "Did you see the news tonight?" she asks.

You nod silently, feeling her squeeze you tighter. It was not pleasant. You'd forced yourself not to turn it off, not to turn away in horror or disgust.

"It could have been them," she whispers, her voice cracking.

Your heart constricts in your chest, your ribs tightening around your lungs in a straightjacket hold. She has voiced the thought that has been running through your mind all evening. It could have. Yes. It so easily could have been them. Two thousand miles away, yet close enough for you to consider never letting them out of your sight again. But, "It wasn't." You make your voice sound firm and sure. "It wasn't," you repeat, spinning to face her. "It wasn't." You kiss her, light and sweet, reassuring.

There are tears in her sage colored eyes, glinting in the hall light, trembling, but refusing to fall.

"Helena," and your name leaves her lips as a plea.

"It wasn't them, darling. They are safe. You see," you face them again. "Our children are safe." Your children. Yes. Your delightful, intelligent, curious children.

"And tomorrow," you murmur, "Cora will rush her way into our room bright and early at half past five, waking us up with a horrible cacophony of sound that should not be possible from a singular throat. And E will insist on an extra, overlarge dollop of syrup on his pancakes. And so will Peter," you add fondly. "And we will go to work while Uncle Steve pulls babysitting duty. And you will insist on coming home for lunch, and I will moan that it's a horribly long way to go for a sandwich, but secretly I will be just as pleased to spend an hour peering at whatever creepy, crawly thing Cora's managed to catch, and reminding Ethan that Trailer is _not _a horse. And we will tear ourselves away, back to the Warehouse, knowing all the while that the real endless wonder is here, in this house. And we'll have dinner, and read them a story, and tuck them into bed. And then we will watch them sleep, much as we are doing now, bemoaning the fact that they are too perfect for words. It will be an absolutely wonderful day."

"So long as Pete isn't in charge of dinner and no artifacts decide to cause trouble halfway across the world," she is quick to amend.

You laugh gaily, quietly, and knock on the wooden doorframe in response.

"You've got it all planned out, don't you," she teases, but the tears have disappeared from her eyes and her smile is real.

"Mostly," you agree. "I like to have a plan, my love."

"I know you do." But she looks at your children once more, her face growing somber. "Can we do it, Helena? Can we keep them safe?"

"All we can do is teach them, darling," the answer falls quickly from your lips. "Guide them. Love them. That is how we protect them." You do not mention that there are events way beyond your control. That life isn't lived according to a schedule written out the night before and placed next to your breakfast cereal bowl on the kitchen table by some motherly figure wearing an apron and a too-cheery smile each morning. You do not speak about the pain or the heartache waiting just around the corner. The missed steps in the dark. The stubbed toes that are sure to occur. You do not speak of guns or artifacts, bombs, hate letters, words hurled at one another to be cruel and evil.

You look at your children, and you think of all the love you have to offer them. Enough to fill a thousand mountain streams, a trillion bajillion oceans, as E would say. You think of the people who give hugs instead of hurts, the power of easily offered gratitude, of impromptu dances in the living room, and messages of acceptance uttered silently with easy handshakes and freely given advice.

You think of the absolute awe in your son's eyes when he saw the firetrucks in town last month, the way his face got serious and determined and he turned to you, tugged on your hand, and said, 'I'm gonna be a firefighter someday, H.' 'Oh, yes,' you'd replied, amused. 'I'm gonna help people,' he responded, fiercely. And you had been unable to do anything other than believe him, your entire being swelling with pride. You think of the people who spend their entire lives helping others without asking for a thing in return. You think of the woman you saw planting flowers in her yard last week. And the man who always sneaks Cora a piece of candy at the grocery store checkout line, giving her a quiet and kind smile as if it is their secret.

You take her hand in yours and lead her from the room, looking back once more over your shoulder. Your children are alive and well and beautiful and innocent. You squeeze her fingers, and you do not think about the news, you only see this moment. Here. Now. Her, in the soft light of the hallway lamp. Your children. Peaceful and perfect. Your family. Safe, protected, wondrous. "All we can do is love them," you repeat. "And hope that it is enough."


	22. Say Cheese

**Say Cheese**

**Bering and Wells - It is almost summer, y'all. And Bering and Wells are coming back to grace our screens with their non-canon presence SO soon. Heck. Yes.**

**Day 22 - Morning Routine**

It is the blaring of her alarm that pulls you from your slumber, and when you roll over, reaching for her, your hand lies flat upon cold sheets. Your eyes pop open as you release an exasperated groan. You are and always have been an early riser, but somehow, Myka beats you out of bed nearly every single morning.

"You'd better get up," her voice is amused.

You peer at her blearily from beneath half-closed lids. She is standing in the doorway leading to the bathroom, already dressed and drying her curls with a towel.

"Is it too much to ask for a single morning when we might awaken together?" you ask.

She smiles, walking over and bending down to kiss your cheek. "I couldn't sleep," she explains. And as she stands back up and heads for the door leading into the hall, you catch a whiff of her shampoo, honey and vanilla.

"You know it's not _your _first day of school, darling," you point out a bit sarcastically.

She pouts. "But that doesn't mean I'm not still nervous."

You roll your eyes, but you don't mean it. She is adorable. You can picture a six year old Myka on her first day of school, up at the crack of dawn, bouncing up and down in her seat at the breakfast table in excitement. Rising out of bed, still wrapped in the sheet, you cross the room in three long steps, to swipe a still damp curl out of her face and back into its rightful place. "Let's just hope Cora got a bit more rest than you did," you murmur, running a finger across the dark circles under her eyes. "Otherwise she'll be an absolute holy terror later."

As if she's heard her name, there is the pitter-patter of tiny feet and then your door bursts open on its hinges. "Good morning!" she practically shouts, and you cringe because if there was anyone still sleeping in the Bed & Breakfast up until this point, it is likely they have just been jolted unhappily into wakefulness. "Is it time yet?" Her green eyes are glowing in excitement.

"Good morning," you respond, amused, running your eye up and down her tiny frame. She has taken the liberty of picking out her own outfit this morning: pink tights, purple skirt, a blazingly orange t-shirt, and the red chaco sandals she hasn't taken off all summer. It is a most remarkable getup.

"Looks like we're out of luck," Myka whispers in your ear before turning to your daughter. "Almost, munchkin. Breakfast first. And, from the smell of it," she tilts her head up, "Uncle Pete is making special pancakes for your big day."

There is an excited squeal that meets this pronouncement, but you have already turned away, heading for the bathroom and the heavenly warmth of the waiting shower, and so you almost miss it, almost don't comprehend the words as they leave her tiny lips and make their way across the abyss to reverberate against your eardrums.

"Is mumma coming, too?"

You freeze, one foot held aloft, and then stumble forward, as though time is moving quicker than normal to make up for its one second lapse.

"Y-yes," Myka stutters. "Of course sh- of course, mumma is coming."

You have to suddenly bite back the lump that has lodged itself in your throat. She started referring to your wife as mommy two weeks previously. A heart stopping moment in and of itself between teeth brushing and story time. And Ethan had, of course, immediately followed suit. Although you'd tried to pretend that the fact that they still referred to you as Helena or H, Myka had, of course seen straight through you.

"_They love you, Helena."_

"_I know, darling."_

"_And they'll come around," she'd reassured you._

"_I know." You'd patted her hand and wandered off to finish the inventory Artie had assigned for the day. But you couldn't shake the desire aching in your bones. The jealousy hanging over your shoulders like a horrible cape. _

There is the chance you've heard incorrectly of course, that your mind is merely playing tricks on you, putting words into her mouth that you so desperately crave. But you force yourself to turn around nonetheless, adopting an easy smile. "I'll be down in just a bit, darling. You go on and wake up your brother and get started on those pancakes."

She grins up at you before spinning easily on her sandaled heel and skipping down the hallway. Myka stares at you and you stare unblinkingly back, unable to form words, thoughts. Perhaps it is a bit strange to be so utterly flabbergasted at such a simple name, but you are currently incapable of normal human action. "I-" you clear your throat, "Did she - ?"

Myka is beaming, her every fiber radiating happiness and contentment. She steps closer, as if afraid you're going to lose the ability to stand. You aren't sure she's incorrect. But it's not that you'd fall, no, you're much more likely to fly at this point. The force of gravity suddenly seeming 83.3% less powerful. She reaches a hand out for you, and presses a kiss to your cheek. "I told you so," she murmurs, her breath tickling your ear. A shiver runs its way down your spine. "Love you. Hurry up," and then she's pulling away, disappearing out the door after your daughter. Your daughter who has so suddenly made this day glorious and wonderful with a single word.

"Alright! Requests?" Pete is asking jovially as you enter the kitchen.

"Bunny!" Cora practically shouts.

"Rabbit for the munchkin. M'Lady?" he addresses your wife who looks nearly as incapable of holding herself still as her daughter.

"Mm..." she considers. "Tortoise."

"Turtle coming up!"

"Pete, those aren't the sam-"

But he cuts her off easily. "This is pancake world, Mykes. Go with it. Kiddo?" he addresses your son, who is slumped over his place at the table, still looking more asleep than awake.

Ethan doesn't answer. You move to pour him a glass of orange juice.

"Snake!" his sister calls for him.

"Sleepy snake for the brother then. And you?" he asks, pointing his spatula at you.

"I think I simply must request a dragon this morning, Peter," you grin slyly at him.

He blinks, his face falling, but then he straightens his shoulders. "Dragon, you say. Dragon ye shall receive. Sir Pancake Chef has never backed down from a challenge, and he isn't about to yet!" He picks up the mixing bowl and begins drizzling batter on the skillet. "Prepared to be amazed."

The laugh that escapes you is loud and joyful.

"Mumma, too loud," your son complains, causing you to very nearly drop the glass still clasped in your hand.

You set it carefully down beside his head, staring wide-eyed at your wife, who is grinning happily at you. You're tempted to ask if this is some sort of conspiracy your children have cooked up between them. How can we throw the great HG Wells off her game all before 7:30 in the morning? It's working, this dastardly simple plan of theirs. Oh, is it ever working.

"Why's school so early, mummy?" he asks, his little voice heavy with fatigue, face still buried in his arms.

You reach over to ruffle his sandy brown hair, naturally highlighted by months of summer sun. "A good question, my love. To torture little boys of course."

He moans, an uncharacteristically adult sound to be emitted from his young throat. But Pete saves the day by tossing a snake-shaped strawberry pancake onto his plate.

"Drench it with syrup," he orders. "That'll wake you right up, my man."

"Not too much!" Myka cries, as her son suddenly lunges for the syrup and dumps bucketfuls over his breakfast. "Sugar high," she mutters, but it's too late. And you take your seat beside him, laughing fondly along with your daughter. What a wonderful morning.

"Picture time," Pete announces as you're on your way out the door.

"We're going to be late!" Cora cries, but you shush her.

"Calm it, sister. We've got plenty of time," you glare softly at your wife, who is also bouncing on the balls of her feet.

She rolls her eyes, but helps Ethan make a 'p' with his fingers so Uncle Pete can snap a quick picture. Then one of Cora, wearing her brand new red Spiderman backpack, grinning proudly at the camera with a single finger raised.

"And now the whole fam," Pete encourages.

Myka swings your son easily into her arms as you wrap an arm soundly about her slim waist and place the other hand on Cora's tiny shoulder. You press a quick kiss to Myka's cheek and she blushes. There is a rush of warmth that spreads through you at the tinge of pink rising in her face. Even after all this time, she takes your breath away.

"Say cheese!" the photographer orders.

"Cheese!" You all enthuse simultaneously. You don't even have to try for the smile spreading across your features. With a click of a shutter, your family is suddenly immortalized in film. The first day of school, the first of many firsts to come. And Myka is mommy, and you are mumma, and these are your children. Happy. Healthy. Whole. Wonderful.


	23. And Fix It

**And Fix It**

**Bering and Wells - ...It's too fluffy for its own good. Too fluffy indeed. But I like it. **

**Day 23 - Family Game Night **

"Easy does it. Easy," you mutter under your breath. "There you go. Yes. Yes -"

"Mum, hush!" Your daughter shushes you, waving her hand for quiet.

You smirk at her, but, "Alright, alright!" you agree after your wife stomps not so gently on your foot from beneath the table. You turn your attention back to the youngest occupant of the table. "You got this, E," you whisper to him.

His little face is scrunched in concentration as he pokes and prods the wooden block from its position slowly. He is turning red, and you want to remind him that it's alright to breathe, but he's too focused and you aren't sure he would hear you. One more tap. Just one more and he'll be able to slide the piece out, no harm, no foul. But then the tower wiggles infinitesimally. He freezes.

Cora is nearly bouncing in her chair in excitement.

"It's stuck," he says to himself.

"Just a bit more to the left, darl-"

"That's cheating!" your daughter proclaims loudly. "No helping, mumma. We already went over the rules."

"He's on my team," you whine.

"Rules are rules, _darling_," Myka responds, leaning over to kiss your cheek. You play at wiping it away. Your children giggle. She pretends not to notice, "Focus, E. You can do it."

He nods, setting his mouth in a thin line of determination. This is a habit he has adopted from his mother, and you only just noticed it last week. It still causes your heart to flutter in delight whenever you spy him imitating her. He reaches out a stable hand, not a tremor in sight. You hold your breath, clasping your hands beneath your chin. The Jenga piece escapes its prison smoothly, sliding free into your son's small fist, but, just as it does, the entire tower shakes on its foundation, and then it's falling, logs flying every which way to scatter across the table top and fly off onto the floor.

Cora is pumping a triumphant fist into the air even as the momentum of the falling structure sends its pieces soaring. "We win!" she exclaims joyfully.

Her brother's face is crumpling in disappointment.

You knew Jenga was a bad idea. It always ends in tears.

"It's alright, sweetheart," you encourage him, patting him on the back solidly. His mother and sister are high-fiving over their victory. "Somebody's got to lose," but the words taste sour on your tongue. You abhor losing as much as he does.

"Losers have to clean up!" Cora crows, but you ignore her for the time being, focusing instead on the little boy.

"Why'd it fall?" he asks you, tears welling up in his green eyes.

He's only five after all. You want nothing more than to pull him to you, assure him that it wasn't his fault, that next time would be different and the two of you would come out on top, but you resist this particular maternal urge. You try not to coddle your children. At least, not too much. It doesn't teach them anything.

"Why _did _it fall?" You answer his question with another question. He glares at you, and you try not to grin. You always did hate it when your teachers did the same thing to you.

He shrugs, still struggling not to cry.

"Alright then. Let's figure it out. You pick up the pieces." You glance over at Myka and cock your head towards your son, who has scrambled off his chair and is gathering up the fallen blocks.

She nods silently, smiling at you. You aren't sure when you both became so adept at this silent, super secret parent language, but it is quickly becoming one of your favorite ways to communicate. A look here, a gesture there, a quick touch on the wrist. Entire conversations above your children's heads and beyond their understanding. It's brilliant. And you've found yourself slipping into it at the Warehouse as well, when the other agents are around and you want to remind your wife that it's her turn to pick up the kids from school, or simply to tell her that she looks beautiful in that sage blouse that makes her eyes sparkle brilliantly, or that you love her even after a particularly trying day of artifact hunting when nothing seems to be going correctly.

Tonight though it's something a bit less monumental, but your body still hums in happiness, in desire, when she understands you.

She claps her hands together suddenly, "Alright, little miss, let's go get ready for bed."

"Bed?" the youngster cries dramatically. "But it's only eight o'clock!"

"And it's a Sunday night. School tomorrow," Myka reminds her sternly.

"What about Ethan?" Cora pouts.

"We'll be up in just a bit," you say sternly, adopting the expression Pete laughingly calls your 'don't-mess-with-the-momma-hen' face. "Your brother and I are just going to go over this for a moment."

The third-grader crosses her arms across her chest, but starts moving sluggishly towards the stairwell. "Not too long," Myka murmurs into your ear, kissing the top of Ethan's head and then your own.

"Promise," you respond, giving her fingers a quick squeeze as she passes. _I love you, _it says.

"Mama will read and I'll be right up to tuck you in, munchkin," you call to your daughter's retreating back. You get an annoyed grunt in response.

"Cora," Myka reprimands with a single word, but you wave her away. Your daughter's fiery temper has the tendency to get her into trouble, but you don't mind it all that much. Sometimes you wonder where she gets her attitude, but then you remember how much time she spends with Claudia and Peter, and you don't have to ponder long.

"Alright," you rub your hands together excitedly, bringing up the image of how the tower looked just before it fell. "Let's set this puppy back up, and keep it standing." You shoot a grin over at your son who has collected all the pieces and is already starting to rebuild a perfect replica of what so recently came tumbling down.

He grins back at you, all traces of tears erased. His eyes are glinting in excitement. He loves such problems as much as you do: taking things apart, finding out how they work, putting them back together again. It won't be too long before he's solving puzzles and saving the day, much as his parents tend to do. Although, that moment can take it's time arriving, you remind the Fates silently. No need to rush things.

But this. Jenga. Is a worthy opponent for a five year old. "Let's get to work," you tell him. "Let's learn what went wrong."

"And fix it," he finishes.

"And fix it," you agree proudly, rolling up your sleeves and getting ready to do a bit of problem solving with your son.


	24. Failure

**Failure**

**Bering and Wells - I'm going off script with this whole 30 day challenge bid-ness. Bering and Wells are in charge. The ship! It sails!**

**Day 24 - ...kidnapping.../angsty angst**

"Shit!" Claudia murmurs the expletive under her breath as incessant beeping fills the Warehouse Office.

You look up, eyebrow halfcocked in amusement. "Alright over there?" you ask.

"It's the alarm system," she mutters, frowning at the multiple screens before her.

"Alarm system?" you repeat, standing and making your way to her side.

"Yeah. The B&B has always had a security system, but until the kids came to live there, it was like something out of the stone age. I took the liberty of upgrading it into this century. Except it's still got some kinks apparently."

"Aww. You armed the house because of the kids? What a sweet, auntly thing of you to do," you tease, secretly pleased that she takes the safety of your children so seriously.

"Yeah. Super sweet I know," she grumbles, typing furiously. "But it has a nasty habit of going off when it shouldn't."

You check the clock on the wall. "Well Ethan's soccer game ended about forty minutes ago. Myka and the kids should have just gotten home. Maybe they triggered it." You'd been annoyed when Arthur had you come in on a Saturday; you hated missing any of the children's events, but with Pete and Steve on a mission in Texas, Claudia couldn't hold down the fort alone.

"Except it's set to recognize all of us, everyone who lives at the B&B."

You look at the back of her head in astonishment. "That's impressive."

"Mmm." She stops typing suddenly. "Oh. Oh no," you barely catch the words.

"What is it?" You bend over her shoulder to view the monitors, and that is when you see it: a black SUV, tinted windows, no plates, barreling up the driveway. Your blood turns suddenly cold.

"Ma-maybe it's a regent," she stutters.

You feel as if you're about to fall over. "Maybe," you agree carefully.

You both watch with bated breath as the car screeches to a halt outside the house and the doors open slowly. As soon as you catch a glimpse of the vehicle's occupants, your body is in motion. Before your brain can fully process what it is you are witnessing, your feet are carrying you towards the umbilicus. Claudia swears again, loudly and profusely, but she is already nearly out of ear shot.

You're running, flying down the hall towards the entrance to the Warehouse. You pull the Farnsworth out of your pocket and flip it open as you sprint, not needing to see the floor disappearing beneath you. "Come on," you mutter angrily. "Answer, damn you!" But Myka doesn't pick up. You shove the device back in your pocket as you burst through the door and out into the hot South Dakota August sun. You yank open the door of the car, jamming the key into the ignition even as you pull out the cell phone Myka insisted you purchase. She has one. As does Cora. The kids are too young for a Farnsworth...or some such nonsense.

You hit the number two speed dial, but your wife doesn't answer. You try the B&B number, but all you get is an annoyed beeping sound. The line's been disconnected. You don't have time to ask yourself why three men dressed in black, wearing masks and carrying automatic weapons are at your home. You don't have time to wonder what it is they are doing there, what or who they are looking for. It's Warehouse related - of that you're certain - but the rest, no you're too busy breaking every single speed limit to think about motives.

You don't hear the tires squealing on the pavement as you make a hard right onto Main Street, ploughing through the red stop sign at the one busy intersection in Univille. You don't hear the honks of an annoyed fellow driver, or see the man waving his fist at you as you speed past. You hear alarm bells and see three hulking figures approaching your home, weapons drawn.

You're throwing the car into park and rushing up the front porch steps even as you recognize the absence of another vehicle in the driveway. They've gone. In the ten minutes (normally thirty five) that is has taken you to arrive, these people, whoever they are, have come and left. The door is swinging gently on its hinges in the light breeze. The robins that have nested in the elm tree shading the lawn are chirping. There is an air of peace about the place, or at least, there _should _be. But your blood is pounding in your ears, and there is an invisible rent running through the stillness, a black hole of nothingness, swallowing whatever peace should exist.

"Myka!" You don't remember when you started calling her name, but your throat feels hoarse as though you've been shouting for days. "Kids. Cora! Ethan!"

She's there, crumpled at the base of the stairs, her right arm twisted improperly beneath her, her long brown hair splayed across her face, pale, still. "Myka," this comes out as no more than a whispered plea. You're by her side, pushing the curls off her cheek, laying one hand against her chest because you have quite suddenly forgotten the proper way to take a pulse. There. A heartbeat, fluttering beneath your freezing fingertips. And the rise and fall of her chest. She moans and shifts.

And that is your cue to pull away. She's alright. She's _alive_. But the terror lacing your spine does not flee. You feel as if you've seen this sight before, as though you've lived through these same events a century in the past. And a million times while in bronze and a thousand more since then. "Cora! Ethan!" You leave her there, your wife, because you have not heard your children cry out in response yet.

The living room, the dining room, the kitchen, the library. Up the stairs. Every single bedroom. Every single bathroom. Cora's bedside lamp has been pulled to the floor, its porcelain body shattered and its sharp fragments scattered about her carpeting, tiny, dangerous pieces of glass ready to split unwary skin. But your daughter is nowhere in sight. And neither is your son. You're still taking in oxygen and your lungs are still converting it to carbon dioxide, but you've forgotten how to exhale. The gas is filling you, poisoning you.

"E! Munchkin! Where are you?" No answer.

"HG!" Claudia has arrived. "Oh, God. Myka!"

You descend the stairs slowly, your feet suddenly feeling like leaden blocks. The younger agent stares at you from her position beside your wife. You push her gently out of the way and kneel down next to the fallen woman.

"HG," Claudia whispers.

"Call Peter. Call Arthur," you order tonelessly, and thankfully, she moves to obey, stepping into the adjacent room without question and pulling out her Farnsworth. Farnsworth's Farnsworth. Pete is still jealous about that. You shake the errant thought away as one might a fly.

"Helena," Myka's voice is fluttery, a baby bird that has not yet learned to sing.

"Easy," you encourage, sliding into place beside her and pulling her into your lap, careful of her wrist.

Her eyes struggle to open, and you study her pupils.

"Concussion. Broken wrist." She groans in pain. "And several ribs, I'd imagine," you continue taking inventory. There is a cut across her right cheek, blood still dripping feebly from the wound. A bruise already forming on her neck you notice, and you see red for a moment before you are able to control yourself. It is clearly defined fingerprints. Someone choked her.

"Co-Cora! Ethan!" She asks suddenly, scrambling to sit up, attempting to use you for leverage. She gags at the sudden movement, her concussion giving her motion sickness. You steady her.

This shouldn't have happened. You promised yourself she would never experience this, never have to know the feeling of having a child torn from her breast, yanked from her despite her best efforts to the contrary. You promised you'd protect her, that you'd protect _them._

But you haven't. You were too late. "They're gone."

She stares at you, searching your face for any hint that you might be incorrect, lying, playing some cruel and inhumane joke.

"They're not here, my darling," you are apologizing. This is the truth.

"I-I fought them," she stutters, still confused, incapable of accepting your words.

"I know. I know you did, sweetheart."

"They can't be gone. Why?"

You shake your head gently, "I don't know." You don't, but you will find out. You will hunt them down and make them wish they'd never been born. And this time, you will not be too late. There will be no need for a time machine.

"Bu-but then I-I-I-I _failed_."

"No-"

"They took them. I wasn't strong enough. I tried. Helena, you have to believe me! I fought them!"

Her green eyes are wide in fear, in agony. They took her children, her babies, and now she's afraid you're going to reject her, leave her. You can see it there, clear as day across her face. You bite back the tears shimmering in your own black eyes. "I know. I know. We'll find them, Myka. We will."

She pulls herself from your arms, gasping at the pain of it all. You know what she is feeling. Torture. A thousand tons of agony ramming into her at the speed of light. You reach for her, but she shies away.

"We'll find them, darling," you are fierce, honest.

But she is shaking, unable to meet your gaze. "They took them. I let them take them. I fought. It wasn't enough. It wasn't enough. I wasn't enough." She is whispering to herself. Over and over again. And you are powerless to stop her. You know this too. This self-doubt. Self-loathing. It's filling her, seeping into her every pore. And you want to take the broken pieces of yourself and lay them lovingly on top of her, covering all her holes and shadows, protecting her from herself. But even then, it would not be enough.

"The guys are coming home," Claudia says apologetically from the doorway.

You look up at her, forcing yourself to concentrate, to focus. Your own shock is reflected in her honest face. You look back at your wife, fracturing before your very eyes. You want to cradle Myka in your arms and tell her a thousand and one times how much you love her, how strong she is, that you will find your children and you will make their abductors pay. You want to tell her that you understand, that it isn't her fault, that she has been beaten and bloodied and _it is not. her. fault_. You love her. But, instead, you drag yourself up, off of the floor. You have been here before, and there is much to be done.


	25. Nightmare

**Nightmare**

**Bering and Wells - What'd I tell ya? This is Part Deux of Failure. Read away, fellow crew members! And may the winds be ever in your favor. **

**Day 25 - Rescue**

"What do we know?" Pete is serious.

"At least five men. Three indoors. Two scanning the perimeter."

"No excess surveillance equipment," Claudia jumps in. "These guys are basically amateurs."

"With assault rifles," Pete argues.

"Outside funding," Claudia fires back.

"And the kids?" Steve brings everyone back on point.

"Upper left corner room. Here," you tap the display with a slim finger.

Steve nods over Peter's shoulder, looking grim.

"If you and Claudia can disable the one on the right, Pete, you and I can enter through this back door and take them by surprise. And then you two can come in through the front."

"And me?"

"You'll wait here. I'll not risk letting you in there with a broken wrist and cracked ribs." She avoids your glance, as she has been doing for the past eleven hours. You want her to look at you; you _need _her to. So that you can tell her that it's alright. You forgive her because there is nothing to forgive. You understand. You love her. She doesn't look at you.

No one argues, but everyone nods in silent agreement.

"_But how are we even supposed to find them? They've got a four hour head start." Pete's voice is grating on your already shredded nerves. _

"_Claud?"_

"_On it!" Several seconds later, "Looks like they're heading north on 83. Through North Dakota."_

"_They're going to Canada," Steve murmurs._

"_What? How do you know that?" Peter asks, sounding a bit dumbfounded._

"_They've got trackers on them," you explain simply. "Cora's is in the bracelet we gave her for Christmas. Ethan's, in the shark tooth necklace."_

"_I'm only getting Cora," Claudia sounds apologetic. _

_You want to crumple into a ball, but instead you straighten your spine. "Well let's go then."_

"On my count," Steve's voice comes soft over the headpiece. "Three. Two. One. And go."

You break from beneath the trees and give thanks that it is a moonless night. Pete is moving silently on your right side. You wish, for half a heartbeat that he was Myka. The two of you work so well together, fluidly, in perfect concert sans communication. With Pete, you have to try, to think, to react, instead of merely flowing as one mind in two bodies.

But he takes down the guard quickly and efficiently, without making a sound. And you begin to reevaluate his worth. He has not wavered once since he and Steve rushed home, leaving the artifact they'd been chasing for another day.

"Ours is down," Steve announces.

"Ours, too," Pete agrees, leading the way towards the back door.

You stand, barely breathing, listening intently in the night. The only sounds are leaves rustling in the late summer breeze, the tap of a branch against a windowpane. Nothing from behind the door. Slowly, slowly, you reach up and try the handle. Locked. That's fine. You pull out the necessary equipment and proceed to pick the lock. Your hands do not shake.

"_We need someone to stay behind," you announce. "Watch the monitors."_

"_I will," Artie speaks up quickly. "I'd be no use to you in the field."_

_You spare him an appreciative glance. He's right._

"_Sure you can handle these, old man?" Claudia tries indicating the monitors she's so quickly set up at the B&B, but the nickname falls flat in the tense atmosphere. He shoos her from her seat. _

"_Cars loaded, guys! Let's go!" Pete bounds into the room._

"_I'm coming, too," she hasn't spoken, not once, since this all began. You know she's reliving every moment, every breath, every action. She looks small on the couch, dwarfed by her sadness. She shouldn't come; she won't be able to help, but you understand that need. It's the same as yours. The need to do something. To save them._

"_Doctor?" you ask Vanessa._

_She looks worriedly from the patient to you and back. She cannot disagree. Myka is a mother after all. Both an unstoppable force and an immovable object. A conundrum. An impossibility. "Alright."_

"_Very well then. Let's go," and you turn for the door._

You open the door quickly and then press back against the wall as Pete makes first entry, gun held aloft before him. Teslas would not quite cut it for this trip. Too loud. Nor would artifacts. You've stuck with guns, and the metal feels heavy in your palm.

"All clear," a shouted whisper.

You follow him inside. You can hear voices - male, multiple - coming from a room down the hall. Light is spilling out an open doorway. There is the clink of ice on glass. They're drinking. You would like nothing better than to kill them. But first, you would like to hear them scream. Your brain feels clear, clearer than it's ever been. You suddenly understand the difference between 2 dimensional and 3 dimensional in a way that you didn't before. Space has taken on a new meaning, depth, shadow, the interplay of light around edges.

You tread carefully down the hall, cautious on the wooden floor. It's an old house, nothing more than a dilapidated cabin really, set about three miles off the main road in the woods. Nothing but trees and streams and wildlife for miles. If it weren't for the tracking devices you'd insisted on last year, you're not sure you would have been able to find your children. You push the thought out of your head. You would. No matter what.

_Steve is driving far above the speed limit, but luckily, you are not spotted by any errant law enforcement officials on your way. You pass through the border quickly, your fellow agents' credentials doing the trick._

_Artie calls when you're about a hundred kilometers out to say that they've apparently stopped driving. Mrs. Frederick is peering over his shoulder. You wonder if he called her. You wonder if he needed to or if she'd simply shown up._

"_It's a rogue group," she explains. "Several regents have been watching them for the past several months."_

"_Fat lot of good that did," Pete mutters under his breath, but he glances apologetically back at Myka when she turns even paler at his words._

"_There should be no more than five of them in total."_

"_What do they want?" you manage to inquire._

"_Access to the Warehouse," she looks particularly affronted. "I am not certain how they learned of its existence, but they obviously thought to use the children as leverage."_

"_They certainly picked the wrong family to mess with," Claudia snarls. _

_Mrs. Frederick nods heavily and ends the call._

_The car drifts back into strained silence. You reach a hand for Myka's, lying still on the seat beside you. She jerks away at your lightest touch. You frown and go back to staring out the window at the quickly passing scenery, a green blur of forest. _

Claudia and Steve have managed to sneak in the front, and you are now positioned on opposite sides of the doorway. These men certainly didn't expect to be discovered quite so quickly. They have been lax on their security. They've underestimated you. It will be one of the last things they ever do.

"Ready?" Steve mouths, making sure to position himself in front of Claudia. He will protect her, no matter the cost.

You nod.

Three. Two. One. And you enter the room, guns drawn. You dispatch one with a clean shot when he foolishly attempts to draw his own weapon in a bumbling, nearly drunk manner. Idiot man. You feel no remorse as his lifeless body tumbles to the ground. Except that you wish it would not have happened so quickly. There is the echo of another gun shot, and Pete bites back a snarl as the bullet grazes his shoulder. He tackles the man to the carpet, rolling around and around on top of one another, fighting for control. A third shot and the captor goes still. You turn your gaze to Steve and the remaining man, his hands held up in the air in surrender. The Warehouse Agent approaches slowly, cautiously, but the man has seen what has become of his buddies, and accepts the handcuffs almost gratefully.

You look to Pete again. "Go," he urges, holding his shoulder tightly. "Go on."

You turn, heading for the stairs, and just as you reach them, the front door bursts open. Instinctively, you whip around, gun held level, unblinkingly. But it's Myka, staring back at you, green eyes wide and terrified, injured wrist held tightly to her chest. You lower the weapon quickly, knowing the feeling of meeting your lover at gun point too well.

"I heard shots," she breaths.

"They're upstairs," you wave away her concern, turning and bounding up the steps. She follows as quickly as her ribs will allow. "Far left room. Far left," you mumble, jogging past three closed doors before you reach the one at the far end.

There is a deadbolt on the outside. You flip it open, rushing through the door without checking to insure that it is safe to do so. You don't care. At this point, there could be an entire army waiting beyond the door and you would have eyes only for the two children huddled on the ratty mattress.

"Mumma!"

"Mommy!"

There they are. Looking a bit worse for the wear. Dirty, tired, hair mussed, a scratch across Cora's delicate cheek that makes you want to go back downstairs and bring those men back to life just so you can shoot them again. But alive and relatively unharmed.

Their hands are tied. You cross the room in three long strides, whipping out the knife from your belt and snapping the zip ties quickly. They launch themselves into your arms, and you stumble back a step before managing to stabilize yourself.

"You're alright. It's alright. I've got you. You're okay." You murmur again and again into their brown curls. Their arms are wrapped tightly around your neck. You spin slightly, looking at Myka who is standing in the doorway, frozen, her mouth opening and closing as though she cannot make the words come. Gently, so gently, you sink to your knees, soothing tears and whispered cries. You detach Cora from your side and point her towards her mother.

She does not hesitate, leaping into Myka's arms immediately with cries of delight. Your wife's arms come down around her automatically and you see a brief flicker of pain cross Myka's face as her daughter crushes already crushed ribs, before she shoves the hurt away to replace it with relief. Myka pulls Cora's smaller body against her, burying her face in the child's neck and breathing deeply. "I love you," you hear her murmuring. "I'm so sorry. Mommy's here. It's alright."

Ethan has wrapped himself about you like a spider monkey, and so you lift him. "Let's get out of here," you tell the room at large, and a round of nods accompanies your announcement. The room stinks of fear, your children's fear, and you want nothing more than to leave it behind, to take them home.

Cora is ten: too big to be held, but Myka stands anyway, lifting her into her arms. She does not even wince at the strain on her wrist. As you pass, Cora reaches out, pulling you and her brother closer, so you are all four wrapped in a tight embrace. Myka's body is stiff against yours, but she kisses Ethan's cheeks again and again.

You are not sure how long you stand that way, but eventually you break apart, leading the way back down the stairs. Steve has contacted Artie and Mrs. Frederick. They're sending someone to deal with the bodies, and they've tied the remaining man up tightly. Whomever the Caretaker has sent will deal with him in due order. You consider teaching him a lesson of your own, questioning him, making him feel your wrath, but you'd much rather continue holding onto your child.

The other three agents welcome the children with calls of delight, and everyone bundles back into the car for the return trip home. The less time spent under the cover of these trees the better. There is only darkness here.

You slide into the middle backseat, Ethan on your lap. And Cora and Myka shimmy in beside you, while Claudia takes the far back, Pete drives, and Steve navigates. You have not stopped the constant stream of reassurance issuing forth from your lips like a river released by floodgates since Ethan and Cora launched themselves into your arms. And you do not stop, not even when you feel the tiny humans grow heavy against you, exhaustion and fatigue taking over now that they are safe.

It is not over. Not yet. This will not be a nightmare easily wiped away by the coming of the dawn. They have only been out of your care for a total of twelve hours, but it is enough to feel like more than three centuries in the bronzer. But the fact that your children are still whole and healthy, that you do not feel the same overwhelming grief and emptiness that you felt one hundred years ago gives you cause for relief. For joy.

You sink back into your seat, tuck Ethan's head beneath your chin, and chance a glance to your left. The sun is rising off to the east; it's golden rays just poking above the horizon, enough to send a halo of light about Myka's head. She is not sleeping. She is staring out at the glowing star, bringing a new day. There are tear tracks streaked across her cheeks, her green eyes are dark and hazy, and her grip about Cora is tight enough to cause the sleeping child to squirm in discomfort. Her spine is straight, but the weight of gravity lays heavy about her shoulders, a cloak of regret, of fear, of pain. She is still being tortured, you see, even now, with your children safe in your laps. Her agony has not ceased.

No. This will not be an easy night to forget.


	26. Saviour (nsfw)

**Saviour**

**Bering and Wells - I don't write smut. I just don't do it because I am baddddd at it. But this isn't **_**reallllly **_**smut. It's more...lovemaking. At least, I hope it is. Except these two tend to make love in loaded glances and small, hidden smiles so I'm not really sure what the hell this is. Whatever these 2000 words are, I'm pretty sure it's N.S.F.W. Mhmm.**

**Day 26 - Lovemaking **

"Myka, darling, please." You slide an arm around her waist beneath the darkness of the night, trying not to react when she flinches at your touch. You are exhausted, running on less than an hour of sleep for the past 36 hours. Your children are finally asleep, cuddled together in Cora's bed. You hope they are dreaming of wonderful things: of fairies and flying and faraway lands that do not know the meaning of fear, that do not have men in black masks and black rooms that smell of piss and terror. You'd watched them, their chests rising up and down in slow peacefulness, for what felt like days, reassuring yourself that they were real, corporeal, not mere figments of your imagination. But now it's nearing three o'clock in the morning and they are safe in their beds, with Trailer parked outside the door, ready to sound the alarm if need be, and you are exhausted, and your wife has not looked you in the eye since you carried your children over the threshold of your home, she has not spoken a single word to you, other than the necessary, "Pass the potatoes," over the dinner table that evening.

"Darling," your chest feels heavy and weighted down as though an elephant has taken up residence there. Your head is light and airy from lack of rest, but you cannot sleep, not yet. The silence enveloping the room is ringing your ears and the cavern of space separating you from the brunette is threatening to swallow you whole.

"Myka, look at me, please," you order, because she cannot continue this way. You won't allow it. You love her, and you would rather spend the rest of your life unable to read the written word than watch her hurt.

She doesn't move. So you sit up on your elbow, reaching with your other arm to pull her onto her back. She keeps her head turned away from you, staring blindly out towards the blank wall. The room is bathed in darkness, the only light coming from crack beneath the door, and the faint glow of faraway moonlight struggling to illuminate the bedroom through the drawn curtains.

You bite your lip, unsure how to proceed. She looks so fragile lying there beside you, but you know it isn't so. This woman is stronger than any person you've ever come into contact with, she is fierce and intelligent, methodical, and protective and steady. "You could have fought harder," you force your tone to sound accusatory. And it startles her, enough that she turns her face to look at you. You want to release the sob building in your chest at the tears trailing across her cheeks, reflecting the faint light. But you force yourself not to buckle under the crushing weight of your wife's grief, of a grief you once succumbed to in another lifetime. You know what it is to be lost, and you will not let her drift away. "You _let _those men take our children. You did not do everything in your power to save them. You failed." Two words. That is all it takes to break her.

She does not deny it, because this is the thought she has been carrying around with her the entire drive up north, throughout the rescue operation, the nine hour drive home, feeding your tired children breakfast, watching Pete play soccer on the lawn with Ethan while Cora searched for butterflies, tucking them into bed like it was any other normal day. These are the only two words her consciousness has been able to produce for thirty six hours, and now that you've taken the liberty of releasing them into the open air, she cannot disagree. The tears are coming faster now.

But you can deny them their truth, and you do, fiercely, "No." You place a hand against her cheek and scoot closer. "That's a lie. Those are words that have no place within your heart."

She shakes her head against your palm. "It is. They do though," the words are shattered glass in the stillness. "You should hate me. _They _should hate me."

"You are their mother. They think you hang the stars in the sky for them each night. That you are the reason the flowers bloom in springtime, and that it is you who teaches the birds to sing. They _love _you."

She is still shaking her head no, so you do the only thing you can think of, the one thing you have been dying to do since this horrible nightmare began, you press your lips to hers, tasting the salt of her tears harsh on your tongue. You pull away, "_I _love you. And I will not let this consume you, my darling. I absolutely will not allow it."

If this were a lighter time, she might tease you for carrying around such an inflated ego, but she stays silent. Fine. You are quite capable of convincing her, of reminding her how wonderful she truly is. Words are not your only weapon.

You lift yourself easily, settling down along the length of her body, shivering slightly at the warmth of her skin.

"Helena, I-"

You cut her off, wrapping a loose hand about the back of her neck and lifting slightly so she stretches up to put your lips together. She tastes of heartache. You give her love, pouring it in dazzling streams of mercury from your mouth to hers. Her hips flex up against yours automatically and you cannot help smiling slightly. You are moving against her in a way that the two of you have perfected over the last few years, but that still takes your breath away each time. It is so effortless, so easy, so right. Your tongue slips between her lips to dance with her own. You are not forceful, but rather gentle, this is but a reminder. She has been your lifeboat more times than you can count, hauling you back off of a ledge you'd leaped onto with exultant expectation at the danger it promised. But this time, the roles have been reversed; you are the one with the lantern, leading her out through the mist and safely back onto dry land.

You break the kiss, trailing your mouth lower to suck at the pulse point of her neck, hard enough to leave a mark that will not completely fade by morning, soft enough to be no more than moth wings avoiding a flame. Her hips rotate once more, seeking contact. You drag a hand down along her torso to come to rest against the hem of her sleep shirt, and then you pause, looking up at her. She is staring at you, green eyes black in the night. "I love you," you remind her. And when she lays her head back down upon the pillow, you know it is safe to continue.

And so you lift her shirt, and she rises to allow you to remove her of it easily. You take a moment to appreciate her curves in the half-moon light. "Gorgeous," you whisper, unable to be anything other than reverent. She blushes. You outline a full breast, making a figure eight to trace the other. "Beautiful," and then you lay her back down gently, positioning yourself above her. Your leave behind a trail of moonlight kisses across her chest, walking your fingers along the edge of her collarbone, down, between her breasts and across her firm stomach that shivers at your touch. And then back up, to take an erect nipple between your teeth and suck gently, one hand still wrapped in the curls at the nape of her neck. You can feel her pulse with your thumb, and although they say not to take a measurement with the digit because it, too is a pulse point, you adore the way your heartbeats mesh, confused and out of sync, but strong, both of them, and alive.

You lavish your attention across the facets of her skin, salt and vanilla and honey. An ambrosia you will never grow tired of. Your own center is growing hot, pulsating with desire, with want, but you ignore it. This is about her, about Myka.

"I love you," you cannot stop saying it. "I love you," against the planes of her stomach. "I love you," into her ear even as you sink down her body once more. "I love you," as you drag a fingernail up along her inner thigh, the temperature of the room increasing with the movement of your hand. "I love you," as you dip beneath her underwear line for the first time and a whimper escapes her - the first noise she has made since you began. "You are strong," as you slide the fabric down and down and down her impossibly long legs to toss it carelessly from the bed. "And beautiful," as you kiss her ankle, the inside of her knee, her hip bone. "I love you," your breath hot against the heat of her own flesh. "I love you," as you run a testing finger through her silky folds. She is dripping. Your own center is aching in response.

"Helena," she gasps.

You enter her smoothly, and she curls around your fingers, her body reacting to your touch as though you are bringing her back to life, constructing her piece by piece back into herself. "I love you."

You are moving together, two bodies, two minds, two souls, but for right now, you are not aware of the dividing line between her heart and your own. The space between you has shrunk to a mere pinprick of distance, unnoticeable. You are holding her to you as you move in her, and you are not sure how you'd lived so many years without her, how you'd survived the utter loneliness that was life without her blinding presence. You're taking her higher and higher with each well-placed thrust, each calculated movement. You know instinctively when she is ready to fling herself off the edge; her breath is coming in short gasps, and the undulating of her hips is becoming unrestrained, erratic, she is nearly there, nearly undone. And at the last moment, you press your lips to hers, capturing her scream and trapping it away inside you, letting it echo around your ribcage. You curl your fingers, and she tips over the edge, flying and falling in equal measure, and you watch in unbridled awe as she comes undone at the seams before you, her entire body erupting in triumph, in release. You still your movements to hold her close, to catch her as she flutters back down to the earth's surface once more. To hold her trembling in your arms and stitch her back together with the promises only light kisses after love making can provide.

Her eyes blink open slowly, her back coming to rest once more upon the wrinkled cotton sheets. Her hands are tangled in your hair and it's only now that you realize she had been pulling at your scalp. The pain is fleeting however, tempered by the look on her beautiful face. "I love you," you say one more time, seriously, as though this is the most prolific pronouncement you will ever have occasion to make. And it is, because you do not often find yourself playing the role of saviour, certainly not _her _saviour. And she is the most precious thing to be saved.

She reaches forward, kissing your swollen lips, and that is when you know it is safe to slide to her side and drape a single arm about her slim waist. She is back. And it is alright for you to trace invisible words across her moon dappled skin with a thin finger as the trembling in her body slows, to bury your face in her curls, feeling her relax beside you, the tension of the past day and half slipping out through the open window to disappear into the night sky. And when she whispers it, carefully, placing the words gently in your palm, both a thank you and an affirmation, you know that it is alright to give in to your exhaustion, to fall asleep with the heady scent of her filling your entire being, to lose yourself in the dreams that are no longer waking nightmares. "I love you, too."


	27. Good Kids

**Good Kids**

**Bering and Wells - Perfect family is perfect. And I would have entitled this that way, except it seemed a bit presumptuous considering all the other ships out there...although it's totes true. **

**Day 27 - Saturday**

"Let's go, E!" you call, clapping your hands together enthusiastically as the people crowded around you on the middle bleachers cheer as well. He catches your eye in the crowd and smiles at you as he jogs up to the plate, bat in hand.

"Did we miss it?" Myka asks breathlessly, sliding into the space beside you.

"Still the first inning. He's up right now," you nod toward the field.

"Oh good," she mutters, attempting to get situated. You slip your hand in hers and she stops her fidgeting immediately, relaxing against you. You try not to smile.

"How was the show?" you ask out of the corner of your mouth, not taking your eyes from your son as he takes position in the batter box.

"It went well, I thought. Cora, how did everyone feel backstage?"

Your daughter shrugs from where she has taken up a position a step down from you. "Fine, I guess." You tap the back of her head smartly and she turns around to face you, questioning and annoyed.

"Phone, please," you order, holding out a hand.

"Ma, c'mon," she's whining, but it only takes a single raised eyebrow to shut her up. She places the device sullenly in your outstretched palm.

"We're at your brother's game. Lighten up, darling. Have some fun."

But all that gets you is a loud sigh and, "Baseball is a dying sport," under her breath.

You smirk over at your wife who is biting her lip in thought, looking as though she can't decide whether or not to call the fifteen year old out on her rudeness. "It's fine," you whisper in her ear, kissing her cheek before pulling away.

She smiles softly at you, but you can still see the worry in her green eyes. Now is not the time to discuss your daughter's attitude, however. She's a teenager; it's her time to rebel. And if she continues to restrict it to sarcastic comments and too much texting, you're perfectly alright with it. It's actually a bit enjoyable to watch her test the boundary waters every chance she gets. It's caused Myka no end of anxiety; she and Cora have always been exceptionally close and now she feels like she's losing her daughter to the craziness that is growing up. But she isn't, and sooner or later she'll realize it. Cora, for all her newfound attitude, is still her mother's daughter: kind and honest and goodhearted. No, you're not all that worried, and so you squeeze the hand in your own reassuringly.

"Ball 1!" the umpire calls, and you hear Pete cheering encouragement from his spot up against the fence. He'd wanted Ethan to play football, but Myka had cited numerous studies of long lasting head injuries and horribly mangled limbs, and so it was soccer in the fall and baseball in the spring.

You liked this old-fashioned American past time. The physics of the game. The easy pace. Even the cold, metal seats and doubleheaders. And the fact that the entire Warehouse crew would turn out for one of Ethan's home games. It was one of your favorite ways to spend a Saturday.

"Strike 1!" Myka groaned beside you.

"He's got it," you encourage, studying your son's stance with a critical eye. He's tall for 13. And he still has a ways to grow yet. He's old enough now to be embarrassed when you or Myka drop him off at school and yell an _I love you! _out the car window, but young enough that he doesn't mind saying it back before bedtime. He is strong and fast, and so ridiculously smart. You know that if you're analyzing the pitcher's stance, your son has already ascertained his strengths and weaknesses, and shifted accordingly. "This next one," you mutter, watching as E relaxes his shoulders. He's got it.

The boy on the mound winds up and lets loose a fast ball that your son connects with solidly, a loud crack echoing over the park. The crowd around you rises as a single mass to cheer as Ethan takes off, sprinting quickly around the bases. First. Second. And he slides to a smooth stop at third as the ball comes arching through the sky to hit the third baseman's glove only a second too late. "How do you always know?" Myka asks wonderingly to no one. You laugh, "Way to go, E!"

You're pleased to see that Cora is cheering as loudly as anyone else for her brother. The two of them are close. Closer than you and Charles ever were. Together, they are an unstoppable force, comical and mischievous, brilliant and wonderful. You nudge Myka and she grins when she notices your daughter clapping enthusiastically. You retake your seats, waiting for the next batter to take his position.

"How'd we get such good kids?" Myka's lips tickle your ear.

There is a rush of warmth that runs through you. "I'd like to think we might have had something to do with it," you play. She hits you gently and you pretend to be affronted. "They are pretty great, aren't they," you agree solemnly.

She nods, resting her head against your shoulder for a moment. You feel yourself sighing in contentment. You never thought you'd feel this way; thankful for a sunny spring day, and the smell of popcorn in the air. Feeling full and warm and absolutely gooey with happiness. You never thought you'd use words such as 'gooey' either, but here you are, surrounded by proud parents, happy husbands and wives and mothers and fathers, and you're fitting right in. You never thought the years - decades - of pain and heartache would come to feel like a dream, a mere whisper in the middle of the night when Myka is gone on a mission and your bed feels large and empty. There are still bad days, certainly, when things go horribly at the Warehouse or out on assignment, when you and Cora get into a particularly nasty spat, when it's Peter's turn to make dinner... But, such things are easier to smile at afterwards, to joke about, to write down and then let go.

"Myka?"

"Hmmm?" the sound comes from deep in her throat.

"Do you know what today is?"

She shakes her head, her curls rustling against your arm.

"Glorious," you murmur. "Absolutely glorious."

Her green eyes meet yours, sparkling and delighted. You know she remembers that day long ago, a day that was dreary and hopeless and the complete opposite of this afternoon, as she brings your joined hands up to her lips and kisses them softly. And you know she agrees when she doesn't answer, merely goes back to watching your son's baseball game. And you know she loves you - still, after all these years - when she bumps her shoulder against your own and laughs, light and easy. And you know that you love her as your heart expands inside your chest, breaking all laws of matter and space, as it attempts to encompass all that is the perfectly flawed woman seated beside you. And you know that you will continue to love her until words lose their power and the seas dry up on their shores and spring stops showing up after winter. Always.


	28. Love Like That

**Love Like That**

**Bering and Wells - "I want to be improbably beautiful and afraid of nothing, as though I had wings." - Mary Oliver - I just kind of want fantasy to be real life, just for a day. **

**Day 28 - Ferris Wheels**

"You mean that in all this time you've never been on a ferris wheel?"

You shake your head no, immediately regretting not having lied.

"How have you managed to avoid it?"

You shrug, peering up at the giant metal contraption with trepidation. You understand the physics behind it; the triangular supports, the constant movement, the angles that allow it to spin without crumpling to earth under the force of gravity. But still, you've never trusted them, not when the first one premiered at the 1893 Chicago World Fair, and not today. But she is tugging you forward with bright green eyes and childlike enthusiasm akin to that of your children when they were still young enough to believe in the magic of fairytales. You have never been able to resist her when she gets likes this -positively glowing with excitement - and you are not about to start now.

You let her pull you into line, and then up the steps onto the platform. You sit beside her in the small seat and allow the man working the machine to snap the bar into place across your laps. She's practically bouncing in her spot, as, with a loud cranking and groaning of gears and accompanied by the upbeat tin music of a carnival, the wheel begins to turn. It moves slowly, inching you up, up above the heads of the crowd milling about, above the food stands and the other rides, until you're 100 meters away from the ground and 300 feet closer to the sky. You've been in airplanes of course, plenty of times, and the skyscrapers lining today's city skylines, and so it is not the height that has caused your pulse to suddenly begin pounding in your ears; it's more the fact that you can name at least fourteen ways the mechanics of this machine could suddenly fail, sending you and the woman you love pitching towards your deaths. You force yourself to take a deep breath, and ignore the tiny voice in your head that lists the lack of safety features. You are adventurous. You take risks every damn day; it's your job. You've looked down the barrel of a gun more times than you can count. You're a mother for God's sakes. Nothing is more terrifying than that. The wheel shudders to a halt, leaving you and Myka at the pinnacle of its rotation. You open your eyes and peer bravely around you.

She holds your hand in hers, and you can feel her eyes on you, waiting for your reaction. "It's not often I see the great HG Wells at a loss for words," she teases after a moment. "Bit speechless there, _darling_?"

You are. But when you turn to look at her to ask if she's seeing what you're seeing, the town of Ithaca, New York spread out before you, streets running haphazardly this way and that, the people looking tiny on the sidewalks, rushing to and fro like ants, your words get lost somewhere between your brain and the air. _It's better than flying, _is what you mean to say. Or maybe you wanted to tell her, _It's wonderful. Thank you._ But you take in her flushed cheeks, her flyaway brown curls that have less than one hundred but more than five strands of gray in them these days, her eyes, shining the color of sunlight through a maple leaf, and, "I'm always speechless when you're nearby," is what comes out instead.

She groans, "And a charmer, too."

But, you're suddenly serious because things get crazy quickly in the lives you lead. Secret agents working in a Warehouse of endless wonder that doesn't exist except in the most classified of documents. Mothers raising two teenage children who like to argue and argue some more and who are more logical and intelligent than they should be at 16 and 14. You're on the road more nights than not, traveling across the globe in search of dangerous and fantastical artifacts that are more likely to turn you crazy or kill you than not. And you're afraid that you don't tell her enough, afraid that you forget, in the hectic of the everyday, to remind her how stunning she is. How she still manages to take your breath away when you're least expecting it. How when she smiles at you in that way she does - the first buds of the crocus in spring, a perfectly worded sentence that rises off the page and comes to rest within your heart, the lights of home shining in the darkness - your lungs stop working properly and your soul, the one you weren't sure you believed in for more than a century, takes flight. You're afraid that you forget to tell her these things because when she holds your hand, words suddenly seem inadequate and silence is the easier route. But sitting at the top of a Ferris Wheel is as good a time as any to attempt to make up for the times when you said nothing.

"Do you remember the first time we met?"

"Yes," she says, squinting at you.

"And the second?"

"Also a memorable occasion." She wants to ask where you're going with this, but she holds her tongue.

"And that night you got back from a two-week trip to Finland at three in the morning and you crawled into bed and woke me up with your icy cold feet."

She nods, laughing, "You were extremely annoyed, I believe. Threatened to kick me out of bed."

"But then you wrapped your arm around my waist and you told me to stop being so ridiculous and you kissed me back to sleep."

"Yes," softly, fondly.

"And remember the year you tried to make Claudia banana bread for her birthday except it came out burned and tasting of charcoal?"

She hits your arm gently, "You said it was fine."

"I lied," you admit easily, shrugging your shoulders.

"That was the night Claudia and Pete saw the ring," her hand goes unconsciously to her chest as she says it, touching the place where a thin silver band on its delicate chain rests against her skin.

You nod. "The time Cora asked you to teach her how to paint, and you said you didn't know how, and the two of you ended up splattering her wall with an hundred different colors. And when I asked you what it was later that night, you grinned at me, blue paint on your nose, and simply said, "It's love, darling. Like this -" and then you kissed me?"

"Like this," and she kisses you again, tasting like humor and happiness.

"Or five minutes ago when you practically dragged me onto this horrible ride, like a child with a new pony," but you kiss _her_ this time to let her know that you're teasing.

She blushes none-the-less. You love her. You love her as the bird knows south from north in the autumn, north from south in the spring: implicitly. But you do not know how to tell her this, how to explain that even now, years later, you can remember the ache that was missing her when you spent those years apart, meeting only here and there, fleeting and insubstantial without her by your side. You _are _at a loss for words, because there are no words in the english language, in any language, to explain that she is both _your_ north and south, your compass and your map, your home and your heart.

"I think -" And she looks at you, reads you, reads the lines across your skin and the words you cannot decipher on your own, and her eyes crinkle at the corners as she smiles softly at you, and suddenly, you know. You know how to tell her. "I think I'll love you forever, Myka Bering." Forever has always seemed such a daunting thing, even for one such as yourself. You, with your more than unhealthy obsession with time and a mind that looks for any way to get more of the blasted thing. But, here, above the world and alone with the woman you love, forever suddenly seems a wondrous promise, no matter how long or short it may turn out to be.

"I know," she answers, and it's not what you were expecting.

"Do you?"

"Of course." She says it as though it is the most obvious thing in the world. "Sometimes it's scary, how much you love me."

"Is it?" You are suddenly worried.

"Mhmm. You can be so fierce." She runs a hand lovingly down your cheek, and you lean into her touch automatically. "Remember the first time we met?"

You smile.

"And the second time? And all of the times you've let me put my cold feet against yours to warm them. How you ate that horrible banana bread and lied and told me it was good? Remember the time you laughed at that speck of blue paint on my face for weeks when it wouldn't wash off, but each morning, you'd kiss me and say, "It's just a little extra love, darling.""

"Yes. Yes to all of the above," you are grinning like a fool now. "Sometimes it's scary how much you love me," you repeat her words back to her, and she is so beautiful. So. So. Beautiful.

"I'll love you forever," and the promise slides so easily from her lips that you aren't sure she's even spoken aloud.

"Will we always be this happy?" you ask the foolish question as the ferris wheel jolts back into motion, taking you down, back towards solid ground.

But she does not give you a foolish answer. "No," she says simply. "But we will always be in love." And you cannot argue with logic like that. With love like that.


	29. Your Story

**Your Story**

**Bering and Wells - Because it's B&W and they are both literary geniuses and so there has to be some storytelling in this great big one-shot that I seem to be writing. And because they are lovely and even though they aren't real, theirs is a story that is beautiful and stunning and begs to be told. **

**Day 29 - Writing**

"Are you coming to bed?"

"Hmm?"

"Helena," you vaguely register the sound of her footsteps crossing the old wooden floorboards, bringing her to stand by your side. "It's almost three in the morning," she yawns as though for emphasis, reaching down to pick up the blanket that has slid unnoticed from your shoulders to pool on the floor and laying it across the back of the chair.

"Is it?" You ask, distracted.

"Mhmm," she sounds amused as she slides a hand along your back and then begins massaging the tense muscles at the base of your neck gently.

"I'm sorry, darling. Oo, that feels heavenly," you close your eyes and hang your head forward, relaxing under her soothing ministrations.

"You've been in here for hours."

You groan, but raise your head to meet her sleepy eyes with your own red-rimmed gaze. Her face is half-hidden in the shadow cast by the single dim lamp; behind her, the rest of the room is masked in darkness. "I lost track of time I'm afraid."

"I noticed," but she isn't upset. "What are you working on?" she asks, turning her attention to the papers spread haphazardly across the surface of the old oak desk.

"Just a little writing," you bite your lip, because you hadn't planned on telling her about it, not yet at least. Not until you'd managed to transfer your thoughts down onto paper in some modicum of straightforward english, in some linear way that would make sense to an outside mind.

She glances sideways at you and then back to the pages, picking one up and studying its contents. Your long, flowing script is spilling across its surface, marred by multiple jagged lines crossing out words and phrases, blots of ink in places that indicate a moment when you'd lost your train of thought and forgotten about the pen resting on the page as you struggled to retrieve it from the depths of your brain. It is messy and rushed and you aren't sure she's even able to read it as her green eyes move back and forth. You're not sure _you'd _even be able to read it, let alone make sense of it.

"This isn't for work," she says at last, squeezing the hand that has come to rest upon your shoulder in question.

"No," you admit.

"It's - you - you're _writing_."

"Yes." You aren't sure what to expect; the two of you have never discussed the fact that you don't write any more. You've discussed your old works to no end - Myka always the one to bring them up. You think she might reread _The Invisible Man _every year, right around the anniversary of the day you were pulled away from the Warehouse that final time and sent into hiding by Mrs. Frederic and the regents, but you're not sure and you've never asked why it always appears on her bedside table for several nights in April and then disappears again until the next year. She has questioned you on them, the novels you wrote back when you were not a woman out of time, back when the whole world saw your brother Charles as the face of the great HG Wells. But neither one of you has ever brought up the fact that you do not put pen to paper in this century, and you are not sure, even in your own heart, why you have not picked up the sword again until now.

"Are you going to let me read it?" And she sounds suddenly vulnerable in a way you haven't heard her since the days of hidden glances and light touches that were practically sparking with electricity. The days before you both believed enough in Fate to think you might stand a chance together.

You hate that she sounds this way, unsure, like she's afraid you're going to outright reject her. And so you scoot over as much as possible in the large chair and she climbs up beside you without prompting, sliding herself into the small space, her curves fitting against your own in a way you have managed to perfect without practice after ten plus years of resting together. She tucks her head beneath your chin, her ear to your chest where she can hear your heartbeat, loud and lively. You wrap your arms around her, staring blankly at the ink-stained pages scattered across the desktop. "It's not finished yet," but that isn't really an answer, and you feel her deflate slightly against you. You hold her tighter. She is soft and warm and wonderful.

"Can I ask what it's about?" But she is not expecting a response, she's asked because it is the next available question.

You ponder what to say, and how to say it, because the truth is, you aren't precisely sure what it is you're writing about exactly; the words have been flowing seemingly of their own accord. "It's about - well - time," this is not enough however and your mouth twists as you consider where to go next. "And I suppose it's about love. And loss. And the absence of hope, and how it comes to be found once more."

"Mm," she makes a noncommittal noise deep in her throat.

"What?" You ask, pulling back so you can see her face, and you're surprised to see that she is smiling. "Care to enlighten me, oh wise one?"

She kisses the underside of your jaw in a placating gesture, her lips warm and soft against your cold skin, and then lays her head back against your chest. "You're writing about us," she explains simply.

"I-" But you stop, thinking back on the words that have been pouring from you for hours, dripping down onto the paper as though they were finally coming home, being laid to rest at last after a long and difficult journey. You exhale suddenly in a giant whoosh of air, because she's correct of course. You run through what you have already written, picking out the pieces of your story, her story, the story the two of you have lived, are living, that your mind has apparently layered into your writing without your conscious knowledge. It is the basis of everything, the framework, a single, tangled, ever twisting red thread weaving its way throughout paragraphs and prose, disappearing from view one page, only to glimmer brightly through on the next. "I am," and it comes out as a strangled laugh.

"I love you," is her answer, and the laugh turns into a lump in your throat which you are forced to swallow. Because even now you cannot believe she says such things. You cannot believe she is real, and not merely a figment of your overactive imagination.

"It's late," you manage. "We should go up to bed."

She shakes her head. "You aren't finished yet."

"Myka, I'm hardly going to be able to write the entire thing in one night," because suddenly you are shy. Writing in front of her, it seems a more intimate act than you might have anticipated.

"Are you telling me you're ready to be done, that you'll be able to sleep if we go up to bed right this minute?"

She's got you there. You can feel it, the need to pick up your pen again and keep going. These words, now that you understand their purpose, have been waiting for you for quite awhile, you realize. You're not so much making them up, as transcribing them, copying them down from where they have printed themselves against your rib bones, across the backs of your eyelids, in between the spaces of your fingers. Wherever she has touched you, wherever she has changed you, they are there, waiting not so patiently for you to set them free in the open air. "No," you croak out.

"Alright then," and she settles herself against you, reaching out with a blind hand to pluck the blanket from behind you and settle it over herself.

"I-" you try to protest, to say that you cannot possibly be expected to transcribe your love affair, because that is what this is, while she is sitting right there beside you.

But, "I love you," she reminds you again.

Sighing silently, you take up the pen again. It's tight with both of you in the chair, and you are more aware of your movements than you might normally be as each one jostles her a small bit, but it is also cozy and comfortable. "I love you, too," you respond quietly, her body relaxing and growing heavy against yours, sleep pulling her once more below. Your eyes skim the last paragraph you'd written before she'd interrupted you, and you see it clearly now, the love that is lacing itself throughout each phrase.

There is the way her eyes light up when you come home after an artifact retrieval that has kept you away for several days. There is the way your heart jumps when she smiles at you over breakfast. The first time she laughed with you. The first moment you knew that what you felt for her was more than mere friendly affection. The shiver that runs down your spine when she trails a single finger down your arm on her way past you in the hall. The dappled pattern of sunlight peering through the branches of the apple tree and playing across her pale skin. And here is the fear of losing her. Here is the heartache that was months of loneliness. Here is insanity. And there redemption. Here is revenge, followed swiftly by regret, and trailing in its wake, renewal. This is the loss of your child, but these right here are the grins of two different children, just as wonderful, just as pure. This is your life. Your life with her, sprinkled across the pages of some fictional character's story, but your lives nonetheless.

And as you begin to write once more, the only sounds in the room are the rhythmic in and out of your lover's breathing, the ticking of the clock above the mantel, the scratch of a pen leaving behind a trail of black breadcrumbs across a snowy surface. It is late, the entire house is asleep, creaking only slightly now and then the way old homes are prone to do. And, as you know from past experience, it is under cover of darkness when secrets are best laid bare.

The story comes easily, as though all of the things you have written before were mere precursors leading to this last great love affair. Because you have not written in a century, and you know from some unknowable place where certain feelings spring from, that this will be your one and final work of the modern era. It is the story of you. Of a woman with brown curls and brilliant emerald eyes. It is being lost, and being found. A story of puzzles and endless wonder. A story about trust and truth and above all things, a story of a love that is larger than anything else in the world. A love that has overcome death, overcome madness, transcended time and space to thrive in two hearts that beat as one. This is a time traveler's tale, and it begs to be told. This is her story, and it is too beautiful not to breathe into being. This is your story, hers and yours, together, and it is glorious.


	30. I Loved an Impossible Love

**I Loved an Impossible Love**

**Bering and Wells - Well, that's all folks. Thanks for reading! **

**Day 30 - Family **

"Hello? Ma? Momma? We're here!"

There is the sound of the front door opening and feet shuffling inside. You toss down the laundry you'd been folding and practically fly down the stairs. Myka, coming from the kitchen, has already beat you there.

"Let me see that baby," she coos, reaching first and foremost for the tiny bundle.

"Good to see you, too, Ma," your daughter rolls her eyes as she hands over the sleeping child, but her mother doesn't even notice.

"Hello, darling," you reach forward, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "_I'm _absolutely overjoyed to see you." Myka hip checks you gently.

"Hi," Cora answers. "Happy birthday!"

"Well thank you, darling. They tell me age is relative, but I'm not so sure. Did you bring me a present?" you play.

"How about a night with your grandchild?"

"Ahh, I see. You only came for the weekend so your mother and I would act as free babysitters. How very kind of you, sweetheart." But you smile fondly over at your wife and the baby in her arms.

Myka glances up and catches your eye, her face shining with joy.

"Actually, I'm not sure you'll be getting her back any time soon," you apologize turning back to your daughter

"Just so long as you don't spoil her rotten," Cora warns.

"Isn't that what grandmothers are for?" you ask. And then, "Oh dear lord I'm a grandmother. How horrid."

Myka snorts while Cora lets out a peal of laughter. "You just wait, darling," you tell her. "One day you'll be changing diapers and the next she'll be having babies of her own."

"It does go by fast, doesn't it," Myka agrees softly, having come to stand beside you. You peer down into the blanket, studying your granddaughter's chubby cheeks, the thick brown curls. "She looks just like you, Cora," Myka nearly whispers, her voice holding that hint of awe she reserves for her children and now grandchildren.

You look up to find your daughter smiling fondly at the three of you. "She's beautiful, C," you tell her gently. She beams at you, proud in the way only a new mother can be.

"I should go help Jared with the bags -" she begins to turn towards the still-open door, but just then her husband comes clumping up the porch steps, loaded down with bags and bundles.

"I think I got it all," he pants, stepping through into the entryway and placing the mountain of supplies carefully down. He kisses his wife's cheek immediately, and then blushes, embarrassed at this public display of affection when you raise an eyebrow at him.

"It's good to see you again, Jared," Myka says humorously, stepping on your foot with her own in a not-so-subtle gesture. You grimace.

"You too, Ms. Bering," he bobs a head.

"Myka, please," she assures him.

"Jared," you say haughtily, sticking out a hand for him to shake. You do so enjoy watching him squirm. "I'm glad to see you've delivered our daughter and grandchild safely in one piece."

"Uh, yes," he glances nervously at his wife for guidance, "yes, ma'am. Happy Birthday," he barely remembers.

They've been together more than three years and he still calls you ma'am. You love it. But you can feel both Cora and Myka glaring at you, so, "I suppose it's high time we did away with this ma'am business. I may be getting older, but I'm certainly not _that _old."

"No-n-no, ma'a-Ms. Wells."

"Jared," you smirk at him. "You are the father of my first granddaughter. Please. Call me Helena. I insist."

"Yes, -Helena," his face is turning red.

You decide it's probably best to give the poor boy a rest. "Why don't the two of you take your things upstairs and get settled in. I think Myka and I can watch the little one over here."

Jared starts picking up bags immediately, making a beeline for the safety of the guest room. Cora trails after him with the leftover suitcase more slowly. "Be nice," she mutters as she passes you, but you merely smile at her.

"Always, darling."

She groans.

"Have you heard from your brother?" Myka asks when the young mother pauses at her shoulder to peer down at her sleeping baby.

"He called about an hour ago. Said he and Sam would be here by dinner."

"Alright," Myka responds, only having been half-listening. She's mesmerized by the baby.

You watch the two of them ogling the child for a moment, matching brown heads bent over the blanket, curls masking their faces, before clapping your hands together gently. "Go on," you urge Cora. "Go get cleaned up. We've got her. We won't break her; we promise."

Cora smiles. "Ugh, she's just so adorable," she whines.

Her mother nods, turning to kiss the side of her head. "Go on, sweetheart. She'll be here when you come down."

"Love you, Fae," Cora murmurs to the child. And then, "Love you, too," she tells Myka. She's halfway up the stairs, when she pauses and turns, "Momma?"

"Yes, darling," you answer, already in the process of reaching for the baby to take your turn.

"I love you, too, you know." She says it the way she used to when she was nothing more than a baby herself, quick and easy and a little bit shy. "And I'm happy we could come for your birthday."

"Tell Jared not to worry," you answer, your heart swelling. "I'm not going to bite him."

She grins and then she's gone, disappearing up the steps and out of sight.

"When did they grow up?" Myka sounds a bit distraught, as you lead her into the living room and settle yourself on the couch. She sits carefully next to you, and hands over the baby.

"We always knew it was a distinct possibility," you play.

She rests her head on your shoulder, running a finger down the downy cheek. The child stirs slightly in her blankets, but settles once more. She's three months old, much larger than the last time you saw her when she was still just a newborn. But she is still ridiculously small and fragile in your arms, and the overwhelming need you feel to protect her, to hold her close, to keep her this way, innocent and pure, overwhelms you. It still takes you by surprise at times - the perfection that the human race is capable of creating - the goodness - the beauty.

"We _are_ getting old," she breathes. And you know she means that you are not evil. Not crazy. Not dead. And so the realization comes as somewhat of a shock.

"It's nice," and nice is not the appropriate term, not all-encompassing enough, but it is the first thing that's popped into your head.

She bends forward, pressing the lightest of kisses to the child's forward, and then she turns to you, pressing your lips together sweetly. Your mouth molds to hers automatically, tasting her on your tongue sends a bolt of warmth rushing through you. "What was that for?" you ask dazedly when she pulls away, and you have to double check just to make certain you have not dropped the precious bundle in your arms.

She shrugs, her green eyes shining. "I like getting older with you."

You cock your head to the side, taking in the familiar curve of her jaw, the dip behind her ear that causes her to shiver whenever you place a kiss there, the wrinkles at the corner of her eyes that weren't present five years ago but suite her. She is lovely. And she knows you better than anyone else. And you are fairly certain that without her by your side, you would not have this chance, this chance to grow old, to watch your children sprout off and start families of their own, to hold your grandchild in your arms and know that she will always be loved, to feel at peace, at home, at rest. Your lives are not easy or straightforward, but they are wonderful. You have seen things that should not be possible according to the laws of science, you have hurt in ways you did not think it was possible to survive, you have manipulated time, you have lost, and you have loved, and throughout it all, she has been here, unwavering, by your side.

"I love you." And although you have told her this too many times to count, you do not mean it any less than the first time the words left your lips. And although you will tell her tomorrow and the next day, until the sun fails to rise and the stars to shine, you have never meant it more than in this moment. There are novels written about a love like this; you yourself transcribed the story to the best of your ability. There are plays created, films shot, works of art whose sole purpose is to attempt to describe the feeling in your chest every time she smiles at you, kisses you, loves you. But this, right here, this moment, with your granddaughter between you, and your grown daughter upstairs with the man she loves, your son on his way home, all of your family coming together to celebrate as one, you love her in a way you thought could only be true in fairytales, a love where kisses were thimbles and children never grew up.

You will grow old with this woman. There will come a time when you do not save the world any longer, when missions turn into vacations turn into nights on the porch swing watching the sun set over the South Dakota landscape. Your daughter's family will grow. Her children will come of age, and they will ask you for your story, and you will smile at them and turn to her and take her hand in yours and say simply and honestly, "I loved an impossible love, and it was glorious."


End file.
